


Running Away Towards You

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Blood, Character Death, Emotional and Physical Trauma, Explicit Sexual Content, Gigi is a BAMF, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Monto has issues, PWP - Porn with Peerlo, Suicidal Thoughts, Threesome - M/M/M, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Year 1455 AD: a young aristocrat banished from his hometown, an old soldier turned outlaw, and a gypsy thief running away from his tribe to be with the one he loves the most – three men bound together by pure chance, hasty promises and mutual need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the ultimate example of what happens when you put a history major into football fandom. I’ve been planning this fic for around one and a half years now: reading stuff on mediaeval Italy on my spare time, getting my facts straight, making timelines, scrapping ideas, starting anew, and now hopefully I’m ready to actually write it.
> 
> Please take the warnings seriously: there will be some disturbing material that might not be everyone’s cup of tea and could possibly work as a trigger to some. I do try to avoid writing explicit descriptions of violence/gore just for the sake of it, but sometimes it might be necessary for the story. So, consider yourselves warned!
> 
> The original idea was partially inspired by lunasenzanotte’s amazing [Shadows of Ourselves](http://lunasenzanotte.livejournal.com/13983.html), and I dedicate this to her and all other history nerds out there. Hopefully I won’t fuck up the whole historical background for you.

_Bavaria-Landshut, 1447 AD_  
  
  
 _My dearest Giampaolo,_  
  
 _I hope this letter finds you well._  
  
 _I am writing to you in hopes that these merchants heading to Milan will be worth the trust and money I put in them._  
  
 _We made it safely to Bavaria. The carriage ride was dreadful, and the roads across the Alps were almost non-existent. Mother was feeling unwell most of the way. Her relief was evident when we finally reached Uncle Friedrich’s house._  
  
 _Everyone has been so kind to us since we came here. I have not quite learned the Bavarian customs yet, but my uncle, aunt and cousins have been nothing but patient with me._  
  
 _Uncle Friedrich promised he will assign a school master for me, so that I will not fall behind in my studies. I am looking forward to meeting him: I have forgotten so much since we left Caravaggio._  
  
 _The only thing that keeps me from enjoying my life here is the constant worry for my father, brother, and you, my beloved friend. I pray every day that the three of you will come out of battle unharmed, while dreading the day bad news may reach us._  
  
 _Not a day goes by without hoping that you would have taken my offer and accompanied us here. Mother is saying the same: she grew very fond of you before we were forced to leave._  
  
 _Please stay safe, my beloved Giampaolo._  
  
 _I am eagerly waiting for the day we will once again be reunited._  
  
 _Sincerely yours,_  
 _Riccardo_  
  
  
  
 _Duchy of Milan, 1455 AD_  
  
  
The sun is shining high, bathing the fields and the roads in its blazing hot light.   
  
It is far too hot to be wearing a cloak, and yet Riccardo pulls the fabric even tighter around himself, over his short linen tunic and light trousers. A barrier between himself and the reality.  
  
His feet are hurting, the boots he is wearing not made for long walks. Even if they were, the shoes have seen their better days in times long past, when he could ride a horse or take the carriage whenever he felt like travelling a distance.  
  
He adjusts the small sack on his shoulder and picks up his pace, uncaring of the heat and pain. Maybe tonight he will find a shelter and have something to eat. Or maybe tonight is the day his pointless journey will finally come to an end, and he will be allowed to join Giampaolo.  
  
 _I’m sorry, my love._  
  
But for now he needs to keep walking, because that is the only thing he has left in this life.  
  
Because he made a promise. A promise that he would keep living, keep going forward no matter what.  
  
  
  
 _Bavaria-Landshut, 1450 AD_  
  
  
 _My dearest Giampaolo,_  
  
 _I miss you more each passing day that goes by without a word from you._  
  
 _We got the news of father’s passing last week, and mother took it very badly. She has not been completely healthy since we came here, but this has driven her bed-ridden. The doctor says she does not have much time, so I have been spending most of my time by her side. I worry for her so!_  
  
 _We have not heard from Luca after the spring, and I fear the worst. I have not had the heart to voice my worries to anyone here, as everyone is so busy worrying over mother’s condition._  
  
 _But what if Luca is gone as well? He was always mother’s favourite, and I am but a cheap consolation for her. I fear I would not be enough for her were the news of my brother’s demise to reach us one of these days._  
  
 _Uncle Friedrich has told me I need to stay strong for mother’s sake. As I might be the only son left of our family, with father gone the burden of responsibility lies on my shoulders._  
  
 _The only thing keeping me sane in these dark times is the thought that you are still somewhere out there, waiting for me. As long as I have hope that you might still hold me dear, I can carry whatever cross God may set upon me._  
  
 _If I were to lose you, I would most likely be worse off than mother. I cannot even begin to imagine the pain your death would cause me._  
  
 _Each day I am praying for a word from you._  
  
 _Just one word to let me know you are alright. That you still keep living for the day we will meet again._  
  
 _Sincerely yours,_  
 _Riccardo_  
  
  
  
  
 _Duchy of Milan, 1455 AD_  
  
  
He does not notice the troupe of bandits lurking in the woods before it is too late and he is surrounded by six scruffy-looking men, each holding a knife or a sword of sorts.  
  
Riccardo tries to pull back, the cloak wrapped even more tightly around himself, the sack in his arms protectively. He looks around feverishly, looking for a way out.  
  
“Look what we found, a lost little boy so far from home,” one of the bandits jeers, taking a step towards Riccardo with his knife pointed at him, “Just give us everything you’re carrying and we’ll let you off easy, okay?”  
  
Riccardo bites his lip, his escape route blocked by another man behind him.  
  
The sack is all he has left – all Lady Cristina could salvage for him before he left Caravaggio – and he cannot give it up. It is all he has to remind him of his past life. Of Giampaolo.  
  
He looks at the man in front of him with challenging eyes, hugging the bundle closer to his chest.  
  
He is not scared. There is nothing these low-lives can do to him that is worse than what he has gone through. Even death would be a welcome distraction by now.  
  
He has nothing left to live for anymore, so might as well be done with it.  
  
He welcomes the first kick that sends him sprawling on the ground, the sack still safely in his arms. The impact opens the scars on his back, the pain bringing tears to his eyes. Tears from the past more than from the current, and he does not utter a sound.  
  
More kicks and punches, and then the bandits are pulling the sack out of his arms, the cloak off his shoulders, even the boots from his feet.  
  
His hold on the bundle loosens after a hopeless battle, and Riccardo has no will to fight anymore. He closes his eyes, waits for the finishing blow he knows is coming. The sharp pain of blade cutting into his flesh, and then it will finally be all over.  
  
 _I’m sorry, Giampaolo._  
  
  
  
 _Bavaria-Landshut, 1453 AD_  
  
  
 _My dearest Giampaolo,_  
  
 _As the days without your letters go by, I am losing hope of ever seeing you again._  
  
 _Losing my mother and brother on the same day has made me the sole survivor of the Montolivo family. I am a baron now, uncle Friedrich told me yesterday._  
  
 _He does not want me to return to Caravaggio, even though the rumours of the war ending have reached even Bavaria. Instead, he wishes me to use my nobility to my advantage, to marry a respectable daughter of a wealthy family here. He even speaks of introducing me in the court._  
  
 _I understand him, for I am the only reminder he has left of his beloved sister._  
  
 _But he does not understand how it pains me to even think about marrying and settling down here, when there is still the slightest of chances that you are alive somewhere out there._  
  
 _For you are my sole reason for living, the thought of you the only thing keeping me from falling into despair. Without that hope I am nothing but an empty shell, and that is why I cannot let go of the hope that one day I will take the tedious trip back to Caravaggio and claim back the estate that is rightfully mine._  
  
 _Your word is all I need. Just let me know you are alive and well, waiting for me back home, and I will be back in your arms in no time._  
  
 _I pray this letter will reach you, wherever you are, my love._  
  
 _Forever yours,_  
 _Riccardo_  
  
  
  
 _Duchy of Milan, 1455 AD_  
  
  
The final blow never comes. Instead, there is a sudden sound of blade hitting another, followed by yells and sounds of battle moving away from Riccardo.  
  
“Next time try to pick on someone your own size!”  
  
He finally opens his eyes at the unfamiliar voice – a deep, rich voice that lacks the uncouth accent of the bandits – and takes a look in the direction the voices are coming from.  
  
One man with a long sword, fighting off all the bandits at once, holding up on his own with no trouble at all. He is tall, with black hair, tanned skin and dark features, a look of regal grace about him as he fights down the last of his opponents.  
  
The thieves are looking at the man in terror, Riccardo’s possessions all but forgotten as they scramble to run away, none of them physically hurt but their pride all but flattened to the ground.  
  
The stranger crouches to pick up the sackcloth and its insides scattered around the road, before turning his sharp, blue eyes to Riccardo, who tries to pull away from him instinctively.   
  
His saviour or not, Riccardo has learned not to trust soldiers. And this man is a soldier, he is certain of it.  
  
“No need to be scared, little one,” the man’s face breaks out into an unguarded smile – a smile that makes it impossible for Riccardo not to believe his words, just a little bit.  
  
The stranger walks up to him and hands him the pile he has collected from the ground: clothes, some small objects with more emotional value than monetary, a small knife, a couple of apples he picked by the side of the road earlier today. The charred remains of his letters to Giampaolo, wrapped carefully inside a cloth protecting them from further damage.  
  
“You’d do better to keep that knife handy – those weren’t the only thieves around here.”  
  
Riccardo stares at the man, takes in his blue eyes and strong features, follows the way his lips move without hearing a word he says.   
  
Upon closer inspection Riccardo notes that aside from the sword he is not wearing anything indicating the army. On the contrary, his clothes are practical, like meant for living on the move.  
  
Who is this man and why did he save Riccardo?  
  
“Are you hurt? They did quite a number on you,” the man crouches down in front of Riccardo, looks him up and down for a confirmation that he is fine, “I’m Gigi. What’s your name, child?”  
  
It is the first time in ages anyone other than Lady Cristina has looked at him like this – like a fellow human being, with worry and sympathy. It is the first time anyone has asked for his name, the first time he is regarded as more than just ‘the prisoner.’  
  
He opens his mouth a couple of times but no sound comes out. The man, Gigi, waits patiently for him to start talking, his encouraging smile reaching all the way to his eyes.  
  
Riccardo clears his throat, his voice raspy from being unused for so long. He has not spoken a word since he left his hometown.  
  
“My name is Riccardo.”  
  
His vision goes blurry as he finishes, and the last thing he remembers before unconsciousness claims him is falling forwards into Gigi’s waiting arms.   
  
Then there is nothing.  
  
  
  
 _Bavaria-Landshut, 1454 AD_  
  
  
 _My beloved Giampaolo,_  
  
 _I am coming home._  
  
 _Forever yours,_  
 _Riccardo_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This chapter is set during the final years of the [Wars in Lombardy](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wars_in_Lombardy) that ended with the Peace of Lodi in 1454. As a result the Duchy of Milan found a relative balance with the neighbouring powers in Venice, Florence and Naples.  
> \- Riccardo and his mother left Caravaggio before the [Battle of Caravaggio](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Caravaggio) in 1447, while his father, brother and Giampaolo stayed behind to fight.  
> \- [Bavaria-Landshut](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bavaria-Landshut) was a duchy in Bavaria (in current Germany) that was part of the Holy Roman Empire in the 15th century. I know Riccardo’s mother is actually from Holstein, but logistically Bavaria was easier to integrate into this story.  
> \- I don’t know much about the way aristocracy worked in the medieval Italy. As far as I know, baron was a common title for the lord of minor feudal lands in the late middle ages, though still a part of the nobility. So let’s just assume that Riccardo comes from a family of rich landowners, though in no way a major player in power politics in the Duchy of Milan. His mother’s family would probably be of around the same status in Bavaria for her to be able to marry into another well-off noble family.  
> \- Long swords were mainly used by the army in the late mediaeval period, which is why Riccardo was so quick to make the connection about Gigi being a soldier.  
> \- Riccardo is supposed to be in his early twenties when he meets Gigi, which means he was in his teens when he left Caravaggio with his mother (too young to join the army for the battle).


	2. Chapter 2

_Rome, Papal States, 1445 AD_  
  
  
“This is useless,” Cassano mutters as they stroll around the busy marketplace, keeping a discreet eye on the troupe of performers that has attracted a large number of spectators around them, “Damned gypsies. Why can’t we just ambush their camp and be done with it?”  
  
“Because that would make us the barbarians,” Gigi replies for the umpteenth time, eyeing the people around them curiously, “We need something to accuse them of.”  
  
The passing people pay them no mind, used to seeing infantry men loitering around the city.  
  
“Isn’t sorcery enough?” Cassano waves his hand at the performer that has just released a flock of birds from a previously empty box.  
  
“Possibly, but we wouldn’t have seen that either if we didn’t come here.”  
  
Gigi is silently hoping they will not find anything more discriminating. A party trick can always be explained as what is it – just a trick, not sorcery. Were they to find anything worse— it would mean a bloodbath.  
  
It is a recent problem: the gypsies setting a camp close to the city, wandering around the public venues, begging, performing, and stealing. Their official orders are to banish the wrongdoers and ban new tribes from entering the threshold, but in practice it never goes like that.  
  
“This is the same troupe we drove away a month ago. They always come back!”  
  
Cassano has a point, as much as Gigi would like to deny it. It is the reason the soldiers got the permission to start arresting and even killing the gypsies if they were caught breaking any laws.  
  
Gigi can still remember the last time they had to attack a camp – the fires, the screams, the blood on his sword, hands, clothes – and he does not want this day turn into another one of those. He still follows the orders, keeping his eyes open, looking for anything unusual among the groups of people.  
  
“This is boring. Have you ever thought of leaving Rome? Joining the Venetian or the Milanese army and get into some real action instead of this shit?” Cassano keeps talking even as his eyes sweep over the crowd, “Or join the Inquisition. You’ve got ecclesiastic education, don’t you?”  
  
“That was a long time ago. I have no interest in hunting down heretics when I can serve the church by keeping the parishioners safe,” Gigi grits out, unwilling to delve deeper into the topic.  
  
He had his reasons for joining the army instead of priesthood, but Cassano is not exactly a person he wishes to reveal his secrets to.  
  
“Too bad – maybe I should volunteer my services,” Cassano’s tone reveals he is only half-joking, and the mere thought of his sadistic comrade extracting confessions from suspected heretics makes Gigi feel sick.  
  
He is about to retort when he sees it: a young man, Gigi’s own age at most, moving through the throngs of people, so inconspicuous it takes Gigi’s trained eye to catch his hands slipping into bags and pockets as he passes by. None of the people notice him, too engrossed with the performance.  
  
Of course, the performance is just a distraction. The troupe has been here before: they know the Roman spectators will not reward their efforts generously no matter how well they perform. It is much easier to go straight to their purses.  
  
The man is quick, and for a while Gigi thinks he has lost him, but then he emerges again from the other side of the crowd, looking at the performance just as innocently as anyone else around him.  
  
He does not look like a typical gypsy: his skin is a bit lighter and hair brown instead of the usual black, but his dark eyes and nomadic clothing give him away. Gigi suspects his unusual looks are the reason why he has been assigned as the pickpocket – he can get around without attracting unwanted attention.  
  
Gigi moves to follow when the man takes his leave, walking away from the crowd as the performance wraps up. Cassano gives him a curious glance but concentrates on the troupe again when Gigi waves him off.  
  
The man is not easy to follow, as he slips around corners and through narrow alleyways, and Gigi almost loses his track twice before they make it out of the city.  
  
They are heading towards the direction of the gypsy camp nonetheless, and Gigi’s last hope is lost. This man is from the same camp as the rest, which makes the whole troupe a band of thieves.  
  
The man disappears when they reach the shelter of the woods, and Gigi cannot locate him again. But Gigi has his evidence now, and the other soldiers have probably discovered similar proof on their own.  
  
What they have left to do is to wait until darkness falls and then they can proceed to empty the camp. The thought sets off a fresh bout of nausea coursing through Gigi’s insides.  
  
  
  
The sunset comes way too fast for Gigi’s liking.  
  
They are waiting in the woods with their weapons ready, close enough to the camp to hear the voices of people living, talking, laughing together, unaware of the danger waiting just outside their tents.  
  
Gigi can hear children’s voices in the mixture of broken Italian and a language he does not recognize.  
  
“They are the intruders, they do not belong here,” he tells himself, gripping the hilt of his sword so tight his knuckles turn white. But where do they belong, then? No one knows where they came from – if they even have a place to go back to.  
  
Cassano stops his trail of thought with a hand on his shoulder and a silent gesture to the troops to start moving.  
  
“Let’s burn them to ground,” the gleeful glint in his eyes is the exact opposite of what Gigi is feeling right then, as they start moving towards the campsite.  
  
The first tent is on fire before Gigi makes it into the camp, not a sign of the protocol they are supposed to follow – not that he expected much better after all the previous times. But it seems like the soldiers are getting more and more violent each time they do this.  
  
Someone is screaming, the smell of burning fabric and fresh blood fills the air. Gigi’s eyes water, and he is not sure whether it is because of the smoke or disgust.  
  
He is disgusted with himself, of what they are doing to these people who are just doing what they can for a living.  
  
He rounds around a large tent, probably the chief’s, and comes face to face with a young woman with two children in tow, barely old enough to walk on their own. The fear in the woman’s eyes hits Gigi hard as he stands there, his sword drawn and a splatter of blood on his face.  
  
This is not right.  
  
Gigi is too distracted with the guilt clenching his insides to hear someone approaching him from behind before he can feel the blade on his throat.  
  
“Touch my family and I’ll kill you, you scum.”  
  
The voice is low and raspy, but the Italian is clear with only the barest hint of an accent. It is a voice of a man willing to do everything to protect his loved ones.  
  
“I don’t want to kill anyone,” Gigi replies quietly, and he is lowering his sword even as he speaks.  
  
“Then why are you doing this?”  
  
Gigi has no answers. He has been so numb for so long that he has forgotten his reasons for fighting. Orders? Law? Peace? Religion?  
  
When exactly did he stop caring?  
  
His attacker moves slowly, the blade never wavering on Gigi’s pulse point as he rounds him to come stand between Gigi and his family. Dark eyes meet Gigi’s and recognition hits them both at the same time.  
  
“You were the one who followed me into the woods.”  
  
Gigi wants to nod, but the dagger is cutting into his skin, and he is afraid of what this man is prepared to do. Instead he takes the breath he has been holding before answering softly, “I did.”  
  
The tears stinging his eyes are now purely ones of guilt – he could have stopped this man earlier, told him what was to come, helped them escape before their camp was destroyed. Instead he had done absolutely nothing.  
  
The battle is raging around them, women and children fleeing the scene while the men hold off the soldiers. The man says something to the woman behind him in a foreign language, and she takes the children in her arms and runs.  
  
The man never breaks the eye contact with Gigi, his hand on the dagger steady, and Gigi knows he would be dead if the man so wished.  
  
“Prove it,” the man says finally, and Gigi can feel the blade moving away from his throat before he dares to look down for confirmation, “Prove me you’re not like them. Make it stop.”  
  
This thief is twice the man Gigi could ever be: he is ready to show mercy when he deserves none, ready to give Gigi a chance even while the camp is in flames around them.  
  
Gigi cannot answer before they hear a scream from the direction where the woman and the children ran. Pure terror flashes in the man’s eyes and in the next moment he is running towards the sound with Gigi in tow.  
  
The woman is lying on the ground, clothes bloody but still trying to protect the children covering behind her. Cassano is looming over them, readying his sword for another strike with a manic glint in his eyes.  
  
“No!” Gigi yells, which distracts Cassano just long enough for Gigi to block his blade with his own.  
  
“Get lost, Buffon!” Cassano hits his blade again with more power, but Gigi does not budge. Instead he moves himself between Cassano and his targets, returns every strike with his own.  
  
“What have we become? Aren’t we supposed to protect the innocent?” he is yelling – furious, sad, scared, disappointed – not holding back as he fights Cassano, forces him to move away from the injured woman and her children.  
  
“There’s no such thing as an innocent gypsy!”  
  
Gigi blocks Cassano’s blade and manages to kick him in the abdomen, the impact enough for him to lower his sword just for a second – an opening every soldier has been taught to exploit – and Gigi can feel his blade cutting into flesh before his brain registers what is happening.  
  
Cassano’s face is bleeding, a long cut stretching from his forehead all the way to his chin.  
  
Gigi cannot do anything but stare, horrified of what he has done: attacked his comrade, his superior, his  _friend_. There will be no going back now: he has just thrown away his life in Rome, in the army.  
  
Cassano does not wait for him to come out of his reverie.  
  
Gigi can feel the sharp blade sinking through his stomach, the pain spreading through his body, the blood gushing out of the wound when the sword is pulled out, his knees hitting the ground as his legs give out, and then finally just darkness as he falls out of consciousness.  
  
  
  
The world is swaying as he comes to, and it takes Gigi a while to understand through the pain and dizziness that he is in a moving carriage.  
  
There is someone sitting next to him, and even through the still lingering fogginess Gigi recognizes him as soon as he leans closer to wipe his face with a wet cloth.  
  
“You’re safe…”  
  
The relief washing through him surprises Gigi. Should he not be more worried about himself than the man he barely knows?  
  
“Don’t talk, you’ll make it worse,” the man answers roughly, his voice shaking slightly, and Gigi can see the tear tracks on his dirty face as his vision clears.  
  
Dear God. The woman. The children. Suddenly Gigi feels guilty again.  
  
“Your family, did they survive?” he whispers, defying the orders to stay quiet because he  _has to know_.  
  
The man looks him in the eyes, surprise evident on his face, “The children are safe. My wife— she was dead before we could get out of the camp.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“Stop talking!” the man snaps and turns his back to Gigi, obviously to hide his tears that have started falling again.  
  
They stay like that for a while, Gigi lying on the bloody cushions on the floor of the carriage, the man sitting next to him in silence, the carriage rocking as their journey continues.  
  
“Thank you,” the man finally says, not looking at Gigi, “For trying. For protecting us. For saving my kids.”  
  
Gigi cannot answer, but he reaches out his hand just enough to touch the man’s arm, ignoring the pain the movement causes. The man does not flinch away from the touch.  
  
At that moment Gigi thinks he might have found something worth protecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The gypsy troupe are actually [Sinti](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sinti), a group still living in some areas of Italy. Some rumours say Pirlo is actually part Sinti, though as far as I know he has never confirmed it. For the purposes of this story I’m still making him one.  
> \- The first Roma and Sinti people in Rome were recorded in 1422, and by the half of the century many cities were banning them from entering, accusing them of theft, fortunetelling and some other crimes. [[Source](http://danny.oz.au/anthropology/notes/gypsy-history.html)] That is how far my historical knowledge goes – **the attacking and burning of camps is made up by me and should not be taken as factual!**  
>  \- I am aware that ‘gypsy’ can be considered a derogatory term nowadays, but in the 15th century the townspeople were not aware of their origins and were going by the information they were given by the arriving Roma/Sinti themselves. I’m using the term because ‘nomad’ would cover a wider group of people while ‘gypsy’ refers to these particular ethnic groups. Please let me know if you can think of a better word!  
> \- Gigi and Cassano are part of the Papal Army that functioned under the Catholic Church in the [Papal States](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Papal_States) and consisted mostly of volunteers (Gigi) and mercenaries (Cassano). Milan and Venice were in war at this time, hence Cassano’s wish to switch sides and join the action.  
> \- The Inquisition here refers to the Papal Inquisition, not to be confused with latter Spanish or Portuguese inquisitions. I might go deeper into this part of history when it’s actually relevant to the story. Do note that most of the inquisitors came from Dominican and Franciscan orders, though, and it would not therefore be that easy for Gigi or Cassano to join.  
> \- Gigi and Andrea are in their early twenties here, putting them into their early thirties when most of the story takes place.  
> \- I’m not going to lie here: I don’t like Cassano. In fact, he is one of the very few Italian footballers I actively dislike. Therefore I’m not even the slightest bit sorry for making him the bad guy here.


	3. Chapter 3

_Kingdom of Naples, 1446 AD_  
  
  
“You need to leave,” Andrea tells Gigi quietly, refusing to look him in the eye in the low lighting of the tent, “You were allowed to stay because you were hurt, even though we all knew the risks of you being here. You’re completely healed now, so there’s no reason for you to stay.”  
  
Gigi had known this day would come: the chief had wanted to kick him out the moment he found out Andrea had helped him escape the burning campsite that fateful night.  
  
The only reason he had been allowed to stay for so long was because Andrea had pleaded with the chief – his father-in-law – and insisted that the whole tribe was indebted to Gigi whose actions had distracted the soldiers long enough for them to escape.  
  
He never mentioned that Gigi himself had been unconscious for the most part of their escape.  
  
Regardless, the chief had grudgingly accepted that protecting his grandchildren and late daughter could not be overlooked and had given Andrea his permission to keep Gigi with the tribe until his wounds were healed.  
  
As it turned out, Andrea was the only tribe member brave enough to come close to Gigi, which meant they had been stuck together until Gigi was healthy enough to move on his own.  
  
Gigi is fairly sure he would have been good to leave some two months ago, and Andrea had kept him sheltered from the chief’s watchful eye on purpose to keep him from finding out.  
  
Somewhere along the way they have grown close, closer than Gigi has ever felt with anyone.  
  
“You’re good enough reason for me,” he tells Andrea solemnly and reaches out to caress the tanned cheek, the stubble scratchy under has knuckles. Andrea closes his eyes and leans into the touch just slightly, welcoming the intimate caress.  
  
“Can’t tell that to the chief,” he whispers, his voice shaking barely noticeably.  
  
Gigi is not quite sure what it is that Andrea is making him feel. First he had felt sorry for him, for this man who had just lost his wife because of Gigi. But as the time passed and he got to know the quirky, witty Andrea underneath all the sorrow, the initial protectiveness had grown into something more potent.  
  
As silly as it sounds, Gigi does not know if he can live without Andrea anymore.  
  
“Then come with me.” Just a simple request, and yet so big and impossible.  
  
Andrea finally looks at him, his dark eyes wide with shock, like he had never expected Gigi to voice the feelings both of them are experiencing. Gigi  _knows_  Andrea feels the same.  
  
“Come with me, let’s run away together, let’s find a place we can be happy. Just the two of us.”  
  
There is a spark of hope in Andrea’s eyes, just a tiny glimmer but it is still there. He is searching Gigi’s eyes for any kind of deceit, leaning in until their faces are only a breath away.  
  
Gigi does now know which one of them makes the first move, but it does not matter when their lips are pressed together, tasting each other for the first time, tentatively looking for the wordless answers neither of them has.  
  
There are sounds outside the tent and Andrea backs away from Gigi so fast he almost stumbles on the boots lying on the floor.  
  
“I can’t,” he gasps, and he is out of the door before Gigi can get a word edgewise.  
  
  
  
 _Duchy of Milan, 1455 AD_  
  
  
Andrea is building a fire by the riverbank, pushing in the dry leaves and grass he managed to collect from the surrounding fields.  
  
The damp wood chars a little but does not catch flame, and Andrea curses under his breath. Their typical luck – they will be stuck without warm food once again even if Gigi manages to find something eatable in the woods.  
  
Sometimes Andrea wonders why he ever thought that leaving his tribe and going with Gigi was a good idea. Who in their right mind would follow a man that once attempted to kill you and your entire family, running away from the army and the church alike, with no place to call home?  
  
But the point is right there: Gigi did not kill him or his family – instead he fought against his superior, for the people he knew absolutely nothing about, and almost got killed protecting Andrea.  
  
Andrea might be completely insane for following Gigi, but at least they can be insane together.  
  
Speaking of the devil, Andrea can hear Gigi approaching him from behind. His steps are heavier than usual, which hopefully means he has managed to catch a boar or something equally meaty, and not that he has picked up another—  
  
“Don’t tell me you picked up another stray on the road!” he yells over his shoulder without looking at his companion. They have been together for years now, and he is more than familiar with Gigi’s habit of picking up helpless creatures on his journeys.  
  
Gigi’s sheepish laugh is proof enough that Andrea is right about him once again.  
  
He turns to around as Gigi makes his way to their camping place, not in the least surprised to find the motionless form in Gigi’s arms. Sometimes an animal, sometimes a human, Gigi is not that picky.  
  
The boy is young, cannot be long into his twenties, his face pale and smooth, only a thin layer of facial hair around his mouth. He is terribly skinny, clothes practically hanging off his form. Gigi makes it look like he weighs next to nothing as he carefully carries the boy to the riverbank and sets him down.  
  
“I told you to stop doing that. Remember what happened last time?” Andrea’s tone is resigned, but he needs to say this because it is the only way Gigi can ever see the fault in his ways.  
  
“What was I supposed to do? The bandits would’ve killed him! I couldn’t leave him there alone!” Gigi argues as he rummages through their bags for blankets – anything to make the boy more comfortable.  
  
“We’re not supposed to get involved! You’re declared an outlaw and a traitor wherever we go! We can’t afford drawing attention to us!” Andrea wants to be furious with him, because Gigi never stops to think about his own safety – their safety – before he rushes into trouble.  
  
“I wasn’t supposed to get involved with you either. We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”  
  
There it is, the reason why Andrea tolerates Gigi’s careless actions, why he cannot get angry with him when he starts playing the hero. This is the Gigi he fell in love with, and no matter how much it pains him, he would not have him any other way.  
  
“What if he turns us in? What if he’ll turn out to be like Claudio in Turin?” Andrea asks even as he walks over to take a closer look at the boy. If he really had been attacked by bandits, he is bound to have injuries, and Andrea cannot trust Gigi to treat them properly.  
  
“You should’ve seen him out there. So timid, yet so hopeless. Like he didn’t care what happened to him,” Gigi is caressing the boy’s dark hair, tangled and dirty, curls sticking together.  
  
“You talked to him?”  
  
“Not really. The name’s Riccardo. He passed out before I had a chance to ask anything else.”  
  
There is blood on the back of the boy’s – Riccardo’s – tunic, and Andrea instructs Gigi to lift him back into a sitting position, leaning on Gigi’s chest, so he can pull of the garment and check him for open wounds.  
  
What is revealed when the tunic is fully off makes Andrea gasp involuntarily. Riccardo’s back is full of long, open cuts, some of them infected and others still bleeding.  
  
Andrea has seen similar wounds once before, when Gigi got caught stealing in Florence and was sentenced to ten lashes of whip as a punishment. Looking at the numerous cuts on Riccardo’s back, Andrea cannot help but think that Gigi got easy with just ten – some of which did not even break the skin.  
  
“This isn’t work of a bandit,” he notes quietly just as Gigi leans to look over Riccardo’s shoulder to see what he is looking at, “Seems like you’ve picked up another criminal. Or a slave, but his clothes look too fine for that.”  
  
The clothes look too fine for a common criminal as well, but Andrea would not be surprised if they were stolen.  
  
“Then he should fit right in,” Gigi forces a laugh, his eyes still stuck on the boy’s back, and his hand twitches like he wished to touch the bleeding cuts.  
  
“No touching!” Andrea warns sharply as he gets up and goes to get water, a cloth, a small knife, and some medicinal herbs he carries around for emergencies. He needs to get the wounds clean to stop the infection from spreading.  
  
Riccardo lets out a sound of discomfort when Andrea first touches his back, but his eyes stay closed, the blessed unconsciousness cutting the edge from the pain.  
  
Andrea does not speak as he works slowly to clean the cuts before he rubs the herbs against them, Gigi watching on as he works. Finally he tears another cloth as a makeshift dressing for the wounds and tells Gigi to hand him a shirt from the bag.  
  
Andrea turns his attention back to his companion only once the boy is dressed, lying on his side to ease the pressure from the wounds, carefully wrapped into all the blankets they carry with them.  
  
“What are we going to do with him? We can’t afford another fugitive dragging us down.”  
  
Gigi raises his eyebrows incredulously, “You can’t possibly suggest we should leave him on his own? He’s too weak – he won’t survive a day!”  
  
“Which is exactly why we need to leave him: he’ll slow us down and get us all killed!” Andrea hates how cold the words make him sound, when he is only being practical. They are struggling badly enough on their own, without an extra person to feed and worry about.  
  
“We’ll just leave him behind if that ever happens,” Gigi insists vehemently, his mind on the matter obviously set, “We don’t need to run all the time, no one is looking for us here. We can set camp and stay put for a while, wait until he is healthy enough to handle himself.”  
  
Andrea takes a look at the boy sleeping only a few steps away from them. The sight reminds him of Gigi right after they met – critically wounded, pale, helpless.  
  
He is afraid that if they let him stay, it will not be that easy to ‘leave him behind’ anymore. Gigi might be fast to grow bored with his new playthings, but Andrea grows attached, unwilling to let go. Just like he did with Gigi.  
  
“Fine, but we’ll leave him the moment he becomes a burden,” he finally says, putting as much conviction as he can muster into the words.  
  
“Of course,” Gigi agrees immediately, leaning in to press a kiss on Andrea’s forehead, “I promised I would protect you. And I won’t let anything or anyone to interfere with that promise.”  
  
Andrea leans into his touch instinctively. He knows this is a bad idea. They both know it.  
  
  
  
 _Kingdom of Naples, 1446 AD_  
  
  
Gigi has collected most of his scarce belongings by the sunset, prepared to leave the first thing in the morning. No goodbyes, nothing, because leaving Andrea behind would be too difficult like that.  
  
He has just settled on his thin bedding when there is a sound outside the tent. He sits up quickly, the soldier’s reflexes kicking in immediately.  
  
“Gigi? You in there?”  
  
He relaxes as Andrea peeks in from the tent door. He lets out a sigh of relief when he sees Gigi inside, like he had expected for him to be gone already. Then he sees the packed bag by the door and his eyes widen again.  
  
“You’re leaving.”  
  
“You told me to,” Gigi retorts simply, but gestures Andrea to come in anyways. There is no point in avoiding the goodbyes now.  
  
“You were going to leave without telling me,” Andrea accuses as he walks in and drops to his knees next to Gigi’s mattress, “Just like that, like nothing happened—”  
  
“What  _happened_ , exactly?” Gigi interrupts him abruptly, “I asked you to come with me. You kissed me. And then you ran away. What am I supposed to think?”  
  
Andrea answers by kissing him again, hard and fast, nothing like the scared press of lips earlier. He groans into the kiss, slips his tongue between Gigi’s lips and explores his mouth desperately. His hands are in Gigi’s hair, pulling him in, keeping him as close as he can get.  
  
Gigi lets him do as he likes, returning the kiss the best he can. He allows Andrea to move away from the floor and straddle his hips, their groins pressed together through the layers of clothing, Gigi’s arms finally wounding around Andrea’s waist.  
  
They are rocking their hips together, desperately trying to ease the pressure gathering inside them. They never break the kiss, not even when Andrea stills in Gigi’s arms, moaning against his lips as he finds his release, Gigi not far behind.  
  
They lie down on Gigi’s bedding, feeling sticky and dirty and vulnerable, but neither is willing to let go yet.  
  
“I’d have to betray my tribe. I could never see my kids again.” Andrea whispers against Gigi’s neck, and Gigi can feel the wetness of his tears against his skin, “How can I choose something like that?”  
  
“You don’t have to,” Gigi answers after a long silence, “I’m sorry, Andrea.”  
  
The silence stretches again, Andrea’s fingers tracing irregular shapes on Gigi’s chest, over his heart.  
  
“Promise me I’ll always have you. Even after ten years, even after fifty – you need to promise me you’ll never make me regret it.”  
  
“I promise,” Gigi whispers against Andrea’s hair, and it is a promise he knows he will never break, not in a million years, “I’ll take care of you, Andrea, I’ll find us a place where we can be safe, together. Forever.”  
  
They leave at dawn, Andrea’s short letter at his chief’s door the only goodbye they can afford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I know nothing about medicine, and I know even less about what was known of medicine back in the 15th century, so let’s just assume Andrea knows what he’s doing, okay? He nursed Gigi back to health more or less alone, so he probably pestered the medic of the tribe and picked up some skills along the way.  
> \- Flagellation was a usual punishment for crimes in Europe until the end of the Middle Ages. Unfortunately that’s as far as my knowledge on the subject goes.  
> \- Slavery was still fairly common in the 15th century, especially in Venice, Sicily and other areas where people came in contact with non-Christians (canon law prohibited slavery of other Christians).  
> \- I’m actually assuming that Andrea was not very involved in raising his kids by the time he decided to leave. As the only remaining blood-relatives to the chief, I think they would’ve been taken in and raised by their grandparents, especially considering that at the time it would’ve been unusual for a man to raise kids alone. ~~Not to mention he was busy with Gigi.~~ On the other hand, the Sinti were very family/clan oriented, so it was a huge decision for him to leave all that behind.
> 
> I'm flying to Japan tomorrow for the next two and half weeks, so I won't be able to update this story during that time. I will probably write more of this during the trip though, so I should be able to start updating again as soon as I make it back home.


	4. Chapter 4

_Caravaggio, Duchy of Milan, 1454 AD_  
  
  
The news of young Baron Montolivo’s return spreads like wildfire through the small still rebuilding town.  
  
His old school master seems especially pleased, and he keeps recounting to everyone willing to listen how young Riccardo refused to attend his reading lessons without his best friend, even though a mere blacksmith’s son should not have been privy to the wonders of higher education.  
  
“He was always like that, uncaring of titles or hierarchy. A fine boy, Riccardo was.”  
  
Lady Cristina, the wife of the chief magistrate, bursts into tears when she hears Riccardo is coming back, remembering the little blue-eyed boy who used to follow her around back when she was still in her teens.  
  
How could she do anything but adore him?  
  
Most people discuss the topic in soft voices, full of gentle pity for the only survivor of the once fine family – the shy, pale boy, too weak to be considered for battle at the tender age of fourteen, sent away to safety with his Germanic mother.  
  
What good did it really do, when he still lost everything? Poor Riccardo, all alone in the world.  
  
People start gathering around the town square in the morning of Riccardo’s rumoured return, all interested to see how the boy has grown. How his immense losses have shaped him.  
  
Nobody is looking more forward to seeing him than Giampaolo, though. The new blacksmith after his father’s untimely death, the man emerges from his shop only as the carriage pulls to stop at the square and Riccardo steps out.  
  
He has grown up fine – gone is the puffy-cheeked, lanky teenager, replaced by this tall, breath-takingly beautiful man who carries himself with grace and confidence.  
  
Giampaolo sniggers quietly when his childhood friend bows down to brush his lips against Lady Cristina’s hand, because it is something the old Riccardo would never have done.  
  
In his mind Riccardo is still the clumsy boy who skipped fencing lessons in order to run around in the woods with Giampaolo – falling down, scraping his knees, and demanding Giampaolo to kiss them better.  
  
Giampaolo could never refuse him.  
  
He hopes that same boy is still somewhere in there, buried under the new maturity and responsibility, forced onto him far too soon. At the same time he fears the endless sorrow that has surrounded Riccardo’s life since he left Caravaggio has destroyed everything Giampaolo used to love about him.  
  
Giampaolo does not have to wait long to find out his fears are baseless, as Riccardo sees him standing behind the eager crowd. The surprise and unadulterated joy lighting up his eyes are so very  _Riccardo_  that Giampaolo almost feels like crying.  
  
His Riccardo, still untainted and absolutely beautiful. That one part of him still holding on to life even when he has lost so much.  
  
Riccardo pushes his way through the thongs of people, grace and titles all but forgotten, and the townspeople let him through with knowing smiles.  
  
Giampaolo knows he must look like an idiot as Riccardo approaches him: he is grinning from ear to ear, practically itching to touch his friend for the first time in years – to find out even the smallest of changes adulthood has set upon him.  
  
Then Riccardo is standing right in front of him, and the slap on his cheek is the last thing Giampaolo expects. The sharp sting registers in his brain only after Riccardo has already pulled him into a tight embrace, and by then it is too late to complain.  
  
“I thought you were dead,” Riccardo whispers into his ear, his breath warm on Giampaolo’s skin, the words coming out as a jumbled mess, “Was one letter too much to ask for? Just one? I hate you, you idiot. I missed you so much and yet here you are, alive and well and  _I was so scared!_ ”  
  
His hold on Giampaolo’s shoulders is getting tighter by the second, and Giampaolo welcomes the contact, because it is the realest, the sincerest thing he has experienced since Riccardo left.  
  
“I did write you,” Giampaolo protests as he wounds his arms around Riccardo’s narrow waist – dear God, he is still far too skinny – years of unshed tears stinging his eyes, “I answered every single one of your letters, but there was no reliable way to send them to you.”  
  
God knows he tried: he tracked down every person heading north, used up all his profits and more just to pay the travelling merchants for their trouble. Everything to get the letters delivered. And all for nothing, as Riccardo never got them.  
  
Giampaolo can feel Riccardo’s tears falling against his neck, and he hugs him tighter, refusing to let go even as the people around them start whispering among themselves.  
  
“I missed you so much,” he whispers, pressing his face into Riccardo’s hair, dirty and tangled after the long travel, but still familiar and soft, just like he remembered, “My beautiful, beautiful angel. I’ve got you now, and I’m never letting you go. Never.”  
  
Riccardo giggles even through the sobs trying to escape his lips, “Stop with the pet names. I’m a grown man now. That’s embarrassing.”  
  
“You’ll always be my little angel, Riccardo. You can’t escape it,” Giampaolo’s tone is light, teasing, but the weight behind the words is so much more. These are the words he has been dying to say for ages, with every letter he wrote that never reached Riccardo.  
  
“I love you,” Riccardo breaths out, his words barely audible, meant only for Giampaolo’s ears.  
  
That breaks the last wall, and Giampaolo is crying too, cradling Riccardo in his arms, kissing his hair, uncaring of the curious looks the townspeople are giving them.  
  
Lady Cristina tells the crowd to give them some space, let them have this one moment for themselves. Riccardo is not going anywhere, and he will answer all their questions when he is ready for it.  
  
But for now he only has eyes for Giampaolo – the missing part of him, that all-important part that’s importance grew and grew during the time they were forced to spend apart, until he had thought there was nothing left worth living for anymore.  
  
  
  
 _Duchy of Milan, 1455 AD_  
  
  
Riccardo wakes up feeling warm, just a moment of comfort before the pain in his body pulls him back to reality.  
  
He remembers dreaming of old times, the times when he still felt safe, loved. The precious few months when he still had Giampaolo, when he thought everything could be alright.  
  
Giampaolo had promised he would never leave Riccardo again, and Riccardo had believed him with all his heart.  
  
Giampaolo never was that good at keeping his promises.  
  
Riccardo is wrapped up in a blanket he has never seen before, and as he moves to sit up he notices he is wearing clothes that are not his either – the well-worn shirt feels unfamiliar against his skin, the smell of someone else lingering in the material.  
  
Panic is starting to clutch his insides, his heartbeat fastening and breath catching in his throat. He tries to stand up, but his head is spinning and his legs give out under him before he can find his balance.  
  
“Oh, you’re awake,” the voice behind him almost startles Riccardo out of his skin, and he turns around to face the tall man approaching him – Gigi, his fuzzy brain reminds him – a worried expression on his face, “You shouldn’t try to move too much, it’ll aggravate your wounds.”  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
It is the only question that makes sense at that moment. Who is this man who saved him, carried him away from the open road, even changed his clothes? What will he demand from Riccardo in return?  
  
“You don’t remember?” Gigi raises his eyebrows as he walks up to Riccardo and crouches down in front of him, “I’m Gigi. I’m nothing special – just a traveller who happened to be in the right place in the right time.”  
  
Riccardo pulls the blanket tighter around himself, as if to build a wall between himself and Gigi. His panic is starting to subside as he listens to Gigi’s steady voice, but he is still unwilling to believe the man is helping him just out of the goodness of his heart. Nobody is that good, especially not in the harsh life on the road.  
  
“Why are you doing this? You could’ve just left me there.”  
  
“What kind of person that would make me? Must be hard on you, Riccardo, living in such a selfish world…” Gigi clicks his tongue in disapproval, like leaving him never even crossed his mind, like he is disappointed that Riccardo would even suggest such a thing.  
  
Riccardo has no idea how a stranger can make him feel like a stupid child with only a few words, but Gigi has managed it with seemingly no effort at all.  
  
Gigi reaches out his hand to touch Riccardo’s forehead, and the boy jumps back out of instinct, the movement sending flashes of pain through his body. His back feels like someone was pulling the skin off, the still open wounds quick to remind him of their existence.  
  
“You’re burning up,” Gigi notes calmly, pointedly ignoring his jumpiness and the following hiss of agony, “My partner might have something to get the fever down, but he’s out in the woods, trying to gather dry wood for the fire. Just bear with it a while longer, okay?”  
  
Riccardo thinks he can hear underlying gentleness in the way Gigi says ‘partner’, but he decides he must be imagining things because there is no way this man could be like him. Like Giampaolo. It was always just the two of them against the rest of the world.  
  
“Where’s my stuff?” he asks suddenly, the thought of Giampaolo reminding him of the letters he still carries with him – the few Cristina could salvage from Giampaolo’s fireplace and hide in her rooms until the trials came to an end.  
  
“Behind you, along with your pants,” Gigi nods towards the small pile on the ground, “I tried to wash away the blood from your tunic, but unfortunately it was stuck too deep. You can just keep the shirt you’re wearing now.”  
  
Riccardo stumbles over to the pile, the letters set on top carefully, the cloth around them still in place although it is obvious someone has opened the bindings while he was unconscious. It makes sense: no one in their right mind would take a stranger to their camp without at least trying to find out what kind of person they are dealing with.  
  
He hugs the letters against his chest with a sigh of relief, the momentary panic when he thought he had lost them slowly settling down.  
  
“So, who’s Giampaolo?” Gigi asks softly after the silence has stretched long enough – too long for his liking – not even trying to pretend he has not read the letters.  
  
Riccardo feels like there is something stuck in his throat, a sob trying to make its way out of his mouth, but he is not going to cry. He stopped crying when he lost Giampaolo, because there would be no end to it if he ever let the tears fall.  
  
He promised he would stay strong. He promised he would never let them see how much he is actually hurting.  
  
“He’s nobody. Just someone from my previous life,” he finally answers Gigi’s question, voice subdued and eyes downcast, but fortunately Gigi does not ask anything more.  
  
  
  
 _Caravaggio, Duchy of Milan, 1454 AD_  
  
  
Riccardo wakes up to an incessant knocking on his bedroom door.  
  
It is still dark outside, but Giampaolo has already left to open his shop. Riccardo can still feel his warmth on the bed as he rolls over to his side, presses his face into the pillows and smells the addictive scent of his lover, before getting up reluctantly.  
  
Cristina rushes into the room before he has a chance to open the door, uncaring of his state of undress. Her eyes are wide, breathing erratic, panic apparent in her every motion.  
  
“It’s the soldiers. The Inquisition. Looking for Giampaolo,” she manages to gasp out as she clutches Riccardo’s shoulders painfully tight, her fingernails pressing into Riccardo’s bare skin, “They were supposed to gather the townspeople together today. But they knew. They knew!”  
  
Riccardo’s earlier sleepiness is like wiped away as the shock and fear take its place.  
  
“Why? How?” he is pulling on his clothes as he speaks – the first ones that he can get his hands on, not caring if they are from the day before, or if they are actually Giampaolo’s instead of his.  
  
“They had the letters. Giampaolo’s letters to you, all of them,” Cristina’s voice is barely louder than a whisper, and Riccardo can see tears brimming in her eyes as he turns to face her.  
  
“It’ll be alright,” he assures her, pressing a quick kiss on her forehead, “Go home, don’t tell anyone you talked to me.”  
  
“You can’t go there! They’ll get you as well!” she protests weakly, but they both know the effort is useless. He needs to be with Giampaolo, no matter what anyone says. Giampaolo is all he has left, and he will not abandon him.  
  
Riccardo cannot remember ever running as fast as he does on his way to Giampaolo’s shop, his boots rubbing blisters into his bare feet and his clothing too light for the chilly morning air.  
  
The soldiers are there before him, dragging Giampaolo out of his shop roughly, manhandling him even though he offers no opposition.  
  
“Stop it! He’s done nothing wrong!” Riccardo yells as soon as he is close enough to be heard.  
  
Giampaolo’s head snaps up immediately, his sharp eyes finding Riccardo’s before any of the men around him have time to react to his appearance, “Get lost, this has nothing to do with you!”  
  
“No! They have no right to take you! You’ve done nothing!” Riccardo tries to reach Giampaolo, but the soldiers stop him before he can get to him.  
  
“Shut up! I don’t even know you!” Giampaolo’s tone is harsh, much harsher than Riccardo has ever heard him before, but the angriness is not enough to hide the fear in his voice – fear for Riccardo’s safety, not his own.  
  
One of the soldiers turns to Riccardo. From his clothing Riccardo guesses he might be ranked higher than the rest. There is a long scar on his face, long-since healed but still visible. It makes his manic grin look even scarier.  
  
“Let me guess: you’re ‘Riccardo’? The ‘little angel’? How nice of you to save us the trouble of finding you,” his grin widens as he regards Riccardo from head to toes, before he turns to one of the other soldiers.  
  
“Arrest him. Let’s get this over with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Aristocrats were usually educated in wide range of subjects from academics to etiquette and warfare, and the boys were expected to join the army in their mid-teens for formal training. Riccardo, being young and stubborn, preferred Giampaolo’s company despite their different background, and it was probably partly because of this that he was not ready for the army at fourteen.  
> \- Relations between different social classes were not unheard of, but it was definitely unusual. Everyone who knew Riccardo and Giampaolo had probably grown used to it during their childhood, and most had no idea that their relationship was not just friendship.  
> \- Homosexuality was not a topic that was often discussed, especially not in a closed community like theirs, which is why it seems plausible that Riccardo would consider himself and Giampaolo outsiders, the only ones that were ‘different’.  
> \- Noblemen often married fairly late, usually with younger women from other noble families, so it would not have been expected of Riccardo to marry anytime soon. Cristina, on the other hand, probably married fairly young – probably before Riccardo left, since she was a few years older than him.  
> \- Papal Inquisition rarely arrested people based on just homosexuality (or sodomy), since they were more focused on heretics. However, there was no central leadership for the Inquisition at this point, so the individual acts were often left at the inquisitor’s own discretion. Let’s just say this particular inquisitor is quite a nasty little bugger, not to mention catching aristocrats usually meant their money and estate would be taken by the church or the magistrate. It’s all about money, as always. But I’ll get more deeply into the way Inquisition worked after the next chapter, okay?
> 
> Okay, so I lied when I said I wouldn't be able to update while I was in Japan. In my defense, I really needed to recharge the batteries of my phone and laptop, and the hostel room didn't have an electric outlet to do it while I was sleeping. So I actually had an excuse to stay in the common room for a couple of hours and finish editing this part. Hope you enjoyed it!


	5. Chapter 5

_Caravaggio, Duchy of Milan, 1454 AD_  
  
  
 _“My dearest Riccardo,  
  
It breaks my heart to read your letters: so much sorrow and loneliness hidden in every word. But most of all I am suffering because I cannot be by your side, to carry you through this pain.  
  
The longer I go without seeing you, the more certain I am that you are the one I love the most. I miss you like crazy, and will not stop waiting before you are safely back in my arms.  
  
I truly believe I was brought onto this world to take care of you, my little angel. I have never seen any other way to lead my life, and I cannot begin to see how loving you could ever be wrong.  
  
If our God truly tells us we are sinners for loving each other, I refuse to be affiliated with such a God. Let the church have their rules, while we build our own – together, forever, my beloved little angel—”_  
  
Riccardo cannot bear to read the letter any further, unshed tears burning his eyes and his chest hurting with too many emotions – or is it from the extensive abuse of the inquisitor? He cannot believe he never received any of Giampaolo’s letters – that they ended up in the hands of the Inquisition instead.  
  
“So you’re telling me you didn’t know anything about your friend’s perverse affections? You’re telling me he’d be ready to throw away God’s teachings for a mere unrequited fancy?” the scar-faced interrogator, Cassano, is practically spitting in his face, disgust and loathing oozing from his every word.  
  
“Neither of us knows anything. It must be some sick joke. Giampaolo would never say such things, not for me or anyone else,” his voice is coming out barely louder than a whisper, his whole body aching from the hours-long torture alone with the inquisitor.  
  
“Don’t lie to me! I’ve got plenty of witnesses telling me he’s been sharing your bed since you came back to Caravaggio! You both are disgusting sodomites and heretics and I won’t let you get away with it!”  
  
Cassano kicks Riccardo’s stool down and he is sent sprawling on the floor with no more energy left to get up on his own. Another kick is aimed at his already injured side – a broken rib at the least – and he cannot even yell because the pain is too intense.  
  
“You wanna get back on the rack? You liked being stretched that much?”  
  
No, he cannot take more pain. All Riccardo wants is to pass out, so that they would finally take him back to his cell next to Giampaolo’s, unable to see him but his voice the most comfort he has received since they were brought here.  
  
The assault stops suddenly, and he is left heaving on the floor, struggling to breathe with the pain at his side. The deafening silence stretches, and it cannot mean anything good.  
  
Cassano goes to the door and calls a couple of guards inside, gleeful anticipation in his voice.  
  
“Undress him,” he orders the guards, and the earlier fear inside Riccardo multiplies immediately, and he cannot hold the tears any longer.  
  
“Stop it,” he pleads quietly when he feels the hands on him, pulling off his already damaged clothes, “Please, don’t do this.”  
  
Cassano grabs Riccardo’s hair when he is fully naked, kneeling on the floor, humiliated, and forces him to look up into his eyes, cold and steely and full of pleasure no one should feel when hurting another human being like this.  
  
“You like playing the girl, don’t you? Maybe I should insert something into you – bet you’d love that,” he is speaking in a low voice, only meant for the terrified prisoner’s ears, “Think Pazzini would like to watch, too, like when you were on the rack?”  
  
Riccardo is mouthing ‘please don’t’ over and over again, his throat refusing to form voice anymore.  
  
Cassano leans even closer, speaking straight into Riccardo’s ear: “Or you could just tell me what you and that little friend of yours have been doing, and I might let you off easy. Just you, because I know how gullible young aristocrats like you can be. I’ll have the magistrate vouch for you and you’ll walk out of here alive in no time.”  
  
Riccardo’s whole body is shaking, with fear or pain, he is not quite sure. For a second he considers the offer, but then he remembers the fear in Giampaolo’s eyes when he saw Riccardo approaching him and the soldiers.  
  
Giampaolo would do anything to keep Riccardo safe, and yet here he is, actually thinking of betraying him and running away alone. Riccardo was never worthy of Giampaolo’s love, never mind titles or social classes – Giampaolo has always been the better man.  
  
“There’s nothing to tell,” he forces out, bracing himself for the assault that never comes. Instead Cassano lets go of his hair and tells the guards to take him back to his cell, just like that, without anything to cover himself with.  
  
His legs do not support him anymore as the guards half-carry him, half-drag him through the corridors, past Giampaolo’s cell and into his own. His eyes meet Giampaolo’s only for a second, and the anger and worry he sees in there break his heart.  
  
“Riccardo, are you okay? What did they do to you?” Giampaolo stumbles to his cell door as soon as the guards are gone, the two sets of metal bars the only thing separating them from reaching each other.  
  
Riccardo grabs the thin blanket from the mattress and wraps it around himself – he at least has that much, while Giampaolo has to sleep on the barren floor – and drags himself to his own door, leans against the bars to get as close to Giampaolo as possible.  
  
“I’m fine, it’s just scaring tactics now that they noticed violence won’t work,” his voice is still thin, the tears not far from falling, but Giampaolo cannot see it.  
  
Riccardo reaches his hand through the bars, space just large enough to almost reach Giampaolo’s door. Giampaolo’s fingers brush against his, too far to actually hold his hand, but this merest contact is all they have left.  
  
“It’s okay to cry now – they’ll be gone until the interrogations continue. The wait is a part of it, too.”  
  
Giampaolo’s words break the last thread of Riccardo’s willpower and he breaks down, sobbing aloud, tears falling down his dirty, bloodied face. Giampaolo caresses the tips of his fingers with his own and whispers sweet nothings to him through the bars.  
  
“I was so scared. That he would— Do that. Touch me there. Take away the last good memory,” Riccardo is rambling, his sobs and gasps for breath making the words almost undecipherable.  
  
“Nothing will take that memory away, I promise you. I’ll get you out of here, even if it’s the last thing I do. They won’t be able to hurt you anymore,” something in Giampaolo’s words make Riccardo’s fear come back tenfold.  
  
“Don’t do anything stupid, Giampaolo,” he whispers when the tears finally run out and he gets his breathing back under control, “I can take it, as long as it’s for you.”  
  
“Well what if I can’t?”  
  
Giampaolo’s question goes unanswered, the sadness in his words stealing Riccardo the last of his voice, and they just sit there in silence until the night falls, their fingers just barely brushing but for the time being it is enough to keep their minds off the terrors awaiting them tomorrow.  
  
  
  
 _Duchy of Milan, 1455 AD_  
  
  
Andrea comes back to a silent camp. Gigi is sharpening his swords while Riccardo is sitting a few feet away from him, blankets still wrapped around himself, staring into nothingness with unreadable eyes.  
  
“Wanna build the fire? Apparently you’re better at it than I am,” he tells Gigi, unceremoniously dropping the small pile of wood in his lap before walking over to the boy who only notices there is someone else in the camp when Andrea is standing right in front of him.  
  
Andrea tries not to stare when Riccardo finally looks up at him. Gigi was right, his eyes are truly spectacular – large, light blue pools devoid of all emotion but hopelessness, a hint of sadness hidden somewhere so deep only another lonely soul could ever reach it.  
  
“I’m Andrea, I’m travelling with Gigi,” he introduces himself carefully, nodding towards his companion when he is mentioned, “I’m the one who tended your wounds – I’m sorry for touching you without your permission but it had to be done to stop the infection.”  
  
If their guesswork is even close to correct, Riccardo has been through a lot of pain and torture, probably somehow connected to his lover mentioned in the letters, so Andrea cannot be careful enough with his personal space.  
  
“I’m— thank you. I’m feeling a lot better already,” Riccardo is obviously choosing his words just as carefully as Andrea, both men regarding each other with barely veiled curiosity, “He told me you might have something for the fever? I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I’m healthy enough to keep going.”  
  
“Don’t rush it, your injuries are too severe to be taken lightly,” Andrea retorts as he kneels down, hesitating a while before reaching his hand towards Riccardo, “May I?”  
  
He touches the sweaty forehead gently after he gets a hesitant nod from Riccardo. It seems the fever is slowly going down on its own now that the infection of his wounds is under control, but it may be best to give him some medicine to speed up the process.  
  
He runs his hand down from Riccardo’s forehead to his cheek, wiping away the sweat on his skin. Riccardo closes his eyes and sighs with something akin to relief, leaning a bit into the contact.  
  
“How’d you do that? With me he jumped half a meter in the air the moment I tried to touch him.”  
  
Gigi’s voice startles Riccardo and he pulls away from Andrea immediately, while Andrea lets out a long-suffering sigh at his partner’s tactlessness.  
  
“Maybe you should try to be a bit more considerate before entering someone else’s personal space?” he suggests as he gets up to rummage his back for fever-lowering herbs, “Just because I’m used to it doesn’t mean everyone else is fine with you touching them whenever you feel like it.”  
  
Gigi makes a face at him but follows him nonetheless, leaving Riccardo to collect himself. He comes over to lean against Andrea’s back, his hands resting possessively on his hips, “You like it, though.”  
  
“Stop it, we’re in company,” Andrea tries to shake him off his back without too much conviction as he finds what he is looking for and they head back to Riccardo, the contact of their bodies never broken.  
  
Riccardo is looking at them with shy curiosity, obviously confused that two men can act so freely around each other even in front of a total stranger. It did cross Andrea’s mind that they should be more careful when they took the boy in, but it is difficult to suddenly change the way they have interacted for years.  
  
After reading the letters, they had also agreed that hiding their relationship would probably cause more harm than good for Riccardo – especially if the scars on his back are in fact a punishment for sodomy.  
  
Riccardo needs to feel accepted, to see it is alright to be the way they are even after being told over and over again how wrong it is. He needs to understand all over again that loving another person is not something you should be ashamed of.  
  
“Here, eat these roots. They should help with the fever and the pain,” he hands the medicine to Riccardo who is yet to utter a word, his eyes glued on Gigi’s hands on Andrea’s waist, “We’ll cook something once Gigi gets the fire going. And we have to change the dressing over your wounds soon, so just tell me when you’re feeling up to it.”  
  
Riccardo nods slowly, finally turning his eyes away from them, falling back into his own thoughts. He is chewing on the roots though, and that is enough to keep Andrea happy for now.  
  
He has a feeling they will have much more healing to do with Riccardo than the mere physical wounds, and he seriously doubts Riccardo will allow them to do it without a fight.  
  
  
  
 _Caravaggio, Duchy of Milan, 1454 AD_  
  
  
It has been a whole day and a night before the guards bring Giampaolo back from the interrogation chambers, and Riccardo has not slept an eyeful, too worried for his lover.  
  
This time is different from all the previous days, though. Giampaolo is walking on his own, slowly but surely, and the guards guide him straight to Riccardo’s cell.  
  
It is the first time they have seen face to face since they were arrested, not counting the times when Giampaolo was dragged into Riccardo’s interrogations, to see him tortured until he passed out, in hopes of making Giampaolo give in.  
  
They truly do know their weak spots, with years of practice in torture and interrogation.  
  
Giampaolo leans on the bars on Riccardo’s cell door, too exhausted to stand up straight on his own but otherwise not looking half as bad as during the earlier nights.  
  
One look into his eyes and Riccardo knows something is wrong, so very wrong.  
  
“I’m sorry Riccardo, I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my promise,” Giampaolo whispers, glancing over his shoulder to the guards waiting a couple paces away, “You’ll have to be brave on your own again.”  
  
Riccardo does not know if he is allowed to touch Giampaolo, but the guards make no move of stopping him when he closes the distance and reaches out to grasp Giampaolo’s hands on the cold bars.  
  
“What’re you talking about? We’re getting out of here together, remember? We’ve done nothing wrong,” Riccardo’s tone is lacking the conviction he was hoping for, and the words come out more like a question.  
  
“I know. I love you,” Giampaolo mouths the words silently, smiling at Riccardo through the tears dwelling in his eyes, “I gotta go for a bit, but I’ll get you out, I promise. Just, don’t let them see your tears, keep your sadness hidden, show them how strong you really are.”  
  
Riccardo does not feel strong at all, clutching on Giampaolo’s hands until his fingers go numb, leaning his forehead against the bars, close enough to Giampaolo to feel his breath against his lips, “Don’t, Giampaolo, I told you not to do anything stupid. I told you not to leave me.”  
  
“I’ll never leave you. I’ll always look after you, no matter where you are. You just need to keep going forward, angel. Find the safe haven we were dreaming of.”  
  
Riccardo is scared, too scared to even think of what it is Giampaolo is about to do. He knows it cannot be anything good – he knows it’ll leave him alone again, and the mere thought terrifies him.  
  
Giampaolo kisses him through the bars then, uncaring of the guards that are throwing uneasy looks at each other but not interfering. Riccardo can taste the tears and blood on both their lips, the horrible tastes mixing together, making his fear even more tangible.  
  
“Don’t leave me,” he whispers when Giampaolo pulls away, but Giampaolo is taking steps backwards already, towards the waiting guards, each step taking him farther away from Riccardo, “I love you, Giampaolo. Don’t leave me.”  
  
He collapses against the bars when Giampaolo is taken away, sobbing into his hands that still hold the warmth of Giampaolo’s palms.  
  
He does not know how long he stays like that, but when he comes to, Cristina is standing outside his cell, unshed tears visible in her eyes as well, but her voice is steady as she orders the guard to open the door and let her in.  
  
“He confessed to sorcery. Told the inquisitor he bewitched you into becoming his lover, that you were completely innocent of any crime.”  
  
Riccardo cannot begin to decipher the words, staring at Cristina with nothing he can think of to say to her. Giampaolo is gone, and he is not coming back. He has left Riccardo for good this time.  
  
“That’s a lie,” he finally tells her, the only words he can get out of his mouth before the tears start falling again.  
  
Cristina sighs, a quiet sound that seems to carry all the sadness in the world. She does not want to be the bearer of bad news, but she is the only one who cares about Riccardo enough, who has enough power to interfere in any way with these horrid events that will burden the small town long into the future.  
  
“I know it is. But it was the only way to save you. It was you who they wanted dead, Riccardo. You’re too well-liked, too influential among the common people to keep around. Giampaolo was supposed to be just collateral damage.”  
  
Dead? The words are finally starting to sink into Riccardo’s jumbled mind, “Giampaolo’s dead?”  
  
It is all his fault. Had he not come back, had he just married in Bavaria like his uncle wanted and forgotten about Giampaolo, had he just—  
  
“He’ll be burned at the stake at sunrise,” Cristina is wiping away her own tears now, “I tried to interfere, make my husband reconsider, but there’re people in high places that wanted to make an example, to show the people that the two of you don’t deserve any sympathy.”  
  
All his fault. All his fault. All his fault. All his fault.  
  
“Riccardo, you need to make them believe the spell is lifted. You need to make them believe you’re innocent or Giampaolo’s sacrifice will be worth nothing!” Cristina is shaking him by the shoulders now, desperate to make him listen, to make him understand what is happening.  
  
“It’s all my fault…” Riccardo whispers, the only thing registering in his brain.  
  
Cristina slaps him then, hard, repeatedly on both cheeks, until he finally focuses his eyes on his trusted friend, childhood idol, once a distant crush before Giampaolo swiped his feet right from under him.  
  
“He’s doing this for you! He’s doing this because he loves you! ‘Tell him to stop blaming himself, because my life wouldn’t have been worth living had I not met him.’ That’s what he told me to say to you. He waited for you all this time, and he’s ready to sacrifice everything just to keep you safe.”  
  
“I can’t live without him,” he finally tells her, and it is all he can say before the sobs start anew, and he can barely keep breathing as Cristina pulls him into a motherly hug, petting his hair and kissing his forehead, telling him “You have to. You have to do it for him.” over and over again until Riccardo finally can bring himself to believe the words.  
  
She stays with Riccardo through the night and holds him at dawn as he sheds the last tears he can spare for Giampaolo – the sounds of the crowd and the crackling fire, and the disgusting smell of burning wood and flesh reaching them through the small windows of the cell.  
  
Giampaolo never utters a sound, and for one certain moment Riccardo knows that even at his last moment he was thinking of Riccardo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Oh hi, Cassano is back! Sorry to everyone who likes him, he’s just too easy to write as a villain.  
> \- The Papal Inquisition was usually only concerned about finding heretics and making them confess and repent their sins. They never carried on punishments themselves – if the prisoner would not repent, they would be handed to secular authorities to be punished.  
> \- ‘Sodomy’ actually refers to all unusual sexual acts regardless of the gender – meaning anything other than marital sex in missionary position with an intention to have children, to put it simply – but it was also used when talking about homosexual acts, like in this case.  
> \- The inquisitor usually came to town and gathered the townspeople together to give them a chance to confess themselves or give information on heretics they knew of. In Cassano’s case he already got the information on Riccardo and Giampaolo, and as we have seen before he’s not particularly good at following protocol.  
> \- The inquisitors were allowed to use torture, but they were supposed to do it only once. However, it was usual to consider the second time a ‘continuation’ of the same session, which is why even the wait could be considered part of the torture.  
> \- The [rack](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rack_\(torture\)) was a mediaeval torture device that stretched the individual from hands and feet. It could lead to very serious damage if used too much, but let’s just agree that Cassano wanted to prolong Riccardo’s suffering and therefore didn’t want to break him too early.  
> \- I don’t think having the arrested lovers in the same cells was common, but maybe they didn’t have enough cells in Caravaggio? Making Riccardo and Giampaolo see each other’s pain was also a good way to make one of them confess – which obviously happened in the end.  
> \- It’s actually incorrect history that witches were burned at the stake by millions, even when talking about the Spanish Inquisition (which is later history than this). However, burning at the stake was used occasionally as a punishment even in 15th century Italy. In Giampaolo’s case he was found guilty of heresy, sorcery and sodomy, and the higher-ups in the town hierarchy wanted to send a message, which makes it half-plausible that he would be punished like this. Nonetheless, you should consider this part **historically inaccurate**.  
>  \- Cristina is meddling a lot for a woman, but let’s remember she’s watched Riccardo and Giampaolo grow up and fall in love, and as the chief magistrate’s wife had the access to information not many could get their hands on. She’s probably risking a lot just to save Riccardo, because she can’t bear to let them both die.  
> \- And yes, they would’ve both died had Giampaolo not confessed – the other aristocrats wanted Riccardo dead and had no concern for a mere blacksmith like Giampaolo. Had Riccardo confessed, most likely they would’ve been both sentenced to death by the secular authorities despite Cassano’s promises.
> 
> \- It broke my heart to write this chapter, because Pazzolivo is my main OTP and killing characters in general is painful. Ironically, this part was also one of the easiest to write text and plotwise, so I guess I must be some kind of a masochist.   
> \- I’ve finally more or less wrapped up the backstories, so I’ll be focusing more on the Gigi/Monto/Pirlo story from now on, though Pazzolivo will always remain in the background.


	6. Chapter 6

_Duchy of Milan, 1455 AD_  
  
  
Andrea is humming something under his breath as he cleans Riccardo’s wounds and wraps new dressings over them. The sound is unfamiliar, the lyrics in a language Riccardo does not recognize but which is distantly familiar nonetheless.  
  
“You’re not from Italy,” he notes softly only after Andrea finishes his song and pulls Riccardo’s shirt down to cover his back.  
  
Andrea is silent for a while, like considering his words before finally answering, “Maybe not, but it’s the closest to home I’ve ever had.”  
  
Riccardo has noticed Andrea’s unfamiliar features before – the dark eyes and rough angles of his face, mostly hidden by the thick beard but still visible if you look close enough – but he has not questioned it until now.  
  
He knows Gigi is from Rome, his distinct dialect giving him away the moment he starts speaking to Riccardo alone. With Andrea he switches into a weird mixture of dialects, as if the way they speak to each other has been shaped into this new form during the time they have spent together.  
  
Gigi recognized Riccardo’s Milanese dialect right away too, could even tell he was from the aristocracy even without any help from his letters.  
  
He has been staying with Gigi and Andrea for five days now, and they have settled into a familiar routine, in which Andrea tends his wounds by the river twice a day and Gigi pesters him with meaningless chatter and occasional questions whenever he has a chance.  
  
Riccardo cannot say he is entirely comfortable with being in the camp even now, even though Gigi managed to get them extra blankets and clothes from a passing merchant, and the couple have assured him over and over again that they do not mind him being there, that he should just concentrate on getting better.  
  
Andrea rounds him so they are facing each other, and there is a small bag in his hands Riccardo has not seen before.  
  
“I was thinking of giving you a shave. The dirt on your face is stuck too deep: I don’t think we can get it clean without getting rid of the beard first,” his eyes are searching Riccardo’s for permission, and Riccardo is fast to give it, just a nod of his head.  
  
Andrea has been so careful with him from the moment they met for the first time, and Riccardo is beyond thankful for it. There is something in Andrea that makes Riccardo trust him, to let him get near without flinching or panicking.  
  
“My mother was from Bavaria,” he tells as Andrea starts taking out the shaving equipment from the bag, “I spent many years there, before— You know. The gypsies around the town used to sing in a similar language to yours. Different songs, but kind of similar.”  
  
“My people have spread far. My tribe – former tribe – moved here from the north as well, before I was even born,” Andrea’s voice is tinted with sadness for a moment, but then he is back to normal as he tells Riccardo to stay still and starts shaving of the thin layer of hair on his face, barely long enough to be called a beard.  
  
His hands are sure, the knife moving smoothly over Riccardo’s jaw, not scratching him even as Riccardo shivers from the cool feel of the blade.  
  
He could have never imagined he would let another person touch him with a knife when he left Caravaggio, the torture wounds still in fresh memory, and yet here he is, allowing Andrea to work in silence without so much as a complaint.  
  
“I had to leave my tribe, my family, to be with Gigi,” Andrea admits quietly as he works, revealing information Gigi has been avoiding even as he spoke Riccardo’s ear off the previous night while Andrea was cooking the fish they had caught earlier.  
  
Riccardo cannot answer, the knife still sliding over his cheek, so he just waits for Andrea to continue.  
  
“It’s never easy, to leave behind everything you know and love. But sometimes it’s worth it,” Andrea finishes his work, pulls the knife away and hands Riccardo a wet cloth to clean his face properly.  
  
“Do you ever regret it?” Riccardo asks, his face hidden behind the cloth, unwilling to look Andrea in the eyes as he remembers leaving Caravaggio for the first and then the second time. The first time leaving Giampaolo behind, the second running away from everything that used to be so dear to him.  
  
Andrea waits until he is done with cleaning up, patiently sitting there in front of him until Riccardo finally meets his eyes again, and only then he answers softly: “Never, I could never regret staying with Gigi.”  
  
Riccardo has grudgingly come to accept that Gigi and Andrea are together, really together, just like he and Giampaolo used to be. There is no other explanation for their comfortable closeness or the gentleness that lingers in both their eyes and voices as they speak of each other.  
  
What he cannot understand is how they can be so open about it with Riccardo, when Riccardo and Giampaolo were always so careful not to give out anything too discriminating to people around them, and still they got caught.  
  
Andrea touches his knee gently, just a brush against the clothed leg, but Riccardo has to suppress an urge to flinch – he is still uncomfortable with sudden contact, his body always expecting an assault even when he knows he is safe here, at least for now.  
  
“You know you can always talk to me, to either of us,” Andrea tells him, holding the eye contact resolutely, “You don’t have to, there’s no hurry, but we’re ready to listen whenever you feel like you’re ready for it.”  
  
“I know,” Riccardo replies quietly, looking down at his hands, avoiding eye contact again, ashamed that he cannot give more than this to his saviours, “Thank you, Andrea.”  
  
Andrea does not try to push him. Instead he reaches his hand to touch Riccardo’s face, hovering his hand in mid-air to allow Riccardo pull away if he feels like it is too much, before caressing the pale cheek carefully.  
  
“You’re much prettier like this, all clean and smooth,” he tells in a half-joking tone, “I’ll tell Gigi not to be too touchy with it, okay?”  
  
Riccardo does not smile – he has been unable to smile ever since they were arrested – but one side of his mouth twitches in effort to acknowledge the comment.  
  
He might still be unused to Gigi’s too familiar touches, but somewhere deep within himself Riccardo knows it is not only because of the torture – it is also because the tall Roman’s actions remind him of Giampaolo, and that is a wound too fresh to touch yet, if ever.  
  
  
  
Riccardo wakes up in an empty tent, where he had crawled into after the dinner right after sunset. The tent is big enough for two people, but Gigi and Andrea insisted he should have it, because the fabric on the floor is much gentler for his wounds than sleeping on the dirty ground.  
  
The two have taken to sleeping outside by the campfire, taking turns in looking after the flames and keeping an eye on their surroundings.  
  
Riccardo is suddenly feeling lonely, a memory of a dream lingering in the back of his mind: a dream of Giampaolo and long fingers clutching on his far too tight, never wanting to let go.  
  
It is at moments like this that he wishes he could just accept Gigi’s closeness and mindless chatter or Andrea’s understanding kindness, just to ease the emptiness and missing that fills his mind whenever he is alone.   
  
He wishes he could open up, just a little, to have someone to share his burden with.  
  
He untangles himself from the old, worn-out blankets and slips out of the tent quietly, hoping to take a walk outside the camp without waking up his new companions.  
  
But the camp is empty, the fire crackling happily but unattended, Gigi and Andrea’s blankets still untouched in a pile next to their bags.  
  
Panic grips Riccardo’s insides, the thought of being left behind flashing through his mind before his more rational part takes over and tells him to get a hold of himself: they would not leave without their bags and tent.  
  
And what if they did leave? Riccardo is supposed to leave as soon as he is healthy, anyways.  
  
Riccardo quietly makes his way to the riverside, relief washing over him when he sees the familiar forms of two men in the river, washing up in the light of the almost full moon.  
  
He walks closer, in the relative shelter of the bushes lining up the riverbank, taking a slight comfort in the thought he is not alone right now, that he has these two men who were willing to take him in for the time being. He may not deserve their kindness, but they are still here, uncaring of his past.  
  
He sits down on the riverbank, hidden from view, just watching Gigi and Andrea in secret.  
  
What he sees makes his breath catch, though, as Gigi presses up tightly against Andrea’s back, wounds his arms around his waist and presses open-mouthed kisses against the back of his neck. Their motions are fluid, almost ethereal in the pale moonlight, and Riccardo cannot look away even though he wants to.  
  
Andrea angles his head to one side, allowing Gigi to kiss the tender skin right below his ear, and he reaches his hand back to get a hold of Gigi’s hip pressed against his backside, rocking slowly back against him.  
  
Riccardo’s mouth feels dry when they turn just slightly, and he can see Andrea’s erection, just a shape against his stomach, the shadows not quite able to hide it from view.  
  
He remembers the times when Giampaolo used to touch him like that, his hands and lips everywhere, trying to find all the new shapes and curves age had brought into Riccardo’s body. He remembers the way Giampaolo would rub his erection against Riccardo’s butt, teasing him until he was shaking with anticipation, so turned on it practically hurt.  
  
Gigi grasps Andrea’s cock from behind, running his large hand along the length, and Andrea throws his head back, mouth opening for a sound Riccardo cannot hear from the distance.  
  
He is slowly getting hard, half on the sight before him, half on the flashbacks running wild in his mind. Giampaolo preparing him, pushing into him, slow thrusts repeating the mantra they both knew by heart:  _mine, mine, mine, mine, mine…_  
  
Gigi’s hand is working between their bodies, fingers inside Andrea, spreading him just like Giampaolo used to do to him. His other hand is still stroking Andrea’s erection, and Andrea is trying to push himself backwards and forwards at the same time, his head leaning on Gigi’s shoulder, the line of his neck beautifully exposed.  
  
 _”Maybe I should insert something into you – bet you’d love that.”_  
  
The memory of the interrogations hits Riccardo out of nowhere, his erection faltering and breath catching in his throat, like something struck his chest too hard. The earlier flashbacks are now mixed with fear, loneliness, tears, and the horrid smell of burning flesh.  
  
All his fault, it is all his fault.  
  
He can see Gigi pushing his cock into Andrea’s willing body – one long, languid thrust and this time Riccardo can actually hear Andrea’s moan – but he is unable to appreciate the beauty of the sight anymore.  
  
His head is spinning, he cannot breathe, he feels like crying, and he feels physically sick.   
  
 _The angry yells of the crowd gathered into the town square, the whip hitting his back over and over again until he knows nothing but pain, and even then it is almost a relief because it takes his mind away from Giampaolo. From the sickening stench of burning flesh he imagines he can still smell in the every corner of the town, even though it has been weeks, maybe months, since Giampaolo’s execution._  
  
He stumbles up, the bushes whooshing and cracking around him, too far gone to care about getting caught, and he runs into the woods. His legs give out under him just as he makes it out of full view, and he throws up the mushroom stew Gigi made them earlier.  
  
His insides are retching, like trying to push away everything he has in his stomach at once, and he keeps throwing up until all he has left is a horrible burn in his throat and a sickening taste on his tongue.  
  
He is still struggling to breathe, the edges of his vision blurring with the lack of air, the breaths he manages to take coming out in short gasps. He is shaking all over, and the tears are burning his eyes, refusing to fall even now.  
  
“Riccardo? You okay?” Gigi is the first one to reach him, Andrea not too far behind, both only half-dressed and dripping wet, but Riccardo cannot concentrate on their appearances as he kneels on the ground, arms around his midsection, the puddle of sick in front of him, the smell almost too nasty to bear.  
  
“C’mon Riccardo, you need to calm down, you need to breathe,” Gigi crouches next to him, uncaring of the smell, grasping his face with both hands, forcing him to look him in the eyes.  
  
The touch only makes him feel worse, and he would bolt up and run away if he had any energy left. Instead he just backs away violently, kicking the ground to create as much distance between them as possible.  
  
Andrea, on the other hand, does not try to touch him, just kneels by his side and speaks in a soft, low voice right next to his ear, “It’s not real, Riccardo, it’s all in the past. Think of the good things, think of the happy times you had with him.”  
  
Riccardo’s shaking starts to settle down slowly as he listens to Andrea’s calm voice, the image of Giampaolo’s smile when he came back to Caravaggio flashing in his mind, and after what feels like an eternity, the grip on his chest begins to unknot as well.  
  
Andrea begins to sing softly into his ear, in that unfamiliar language that sounds a bit like German, but still not even close. Riccardo concentrates on every sound, every note, and finally he can breathe again, if only in short, ineffective puffs.  
  
“I’m sorry you had to see that. We thought you were asleep,” Andrea apologizes quietly once Riccardo had visibly calmed down, his vision clearing again with every breath he manages to take.  
  
“It’s— not that,” he whispers, just loud enough that Gigi who is standing a few feet away from them can hear him as well, “It’s the flames, the smell, the  _pain_. It’s my fault, I couldn’t help him, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry—”  
  
“Do you regret it? Being with him?” Andrea interrupts him, and he glances at Gigi with such affection it makes Riccardo feel guilty for intruding their camp, their lives, their privacy.  
  
“Being with him, not at all,” Riccardo answers finally after the silence has stretched almost impossibly long, “Not dying instead of him, every second.”  
  
Sudden understanding flashes in Andrea’s eyes, a look of sorrow and regret visible only for a second before he collects himself again, reaching out to stroke Riccardo’s hair carefully, and Riccardo does not try to pull away this time.  
  
“He doesn’t regret it. He’d like you to live, to find something worth living for,” Andrea tells him solemnly, and for a moment Riccardo forgets Andrea does not even know him and Giampaolo, does not have anything to go by but a few letters and the small bits of information Riccardo has let slip.  
  
He leans into the touch tentatively, lets Andrea stroke his hair, then the back of his neck, before the man hesitantly pulls him into a hug, Riccardo’s head in the crook of his neck. Andrea’s other arm is wrapped around his shoulders while the other continues its gentle caresses, buried in the dark curls.  
  
“Let’s get you back to the camp,” Andrea whispers into his ear once he is sure Riccardo has completely calmed down, “You should get some sleep. I promise you’ll feel better in the morning.”  
  
Riccardo meets Gigi’s eyes as he gets up with the help from Andrea, their bodily contact never quite breaking.  
  
“I’m sorry, Gigi,” he apologizes quietly, turning his gaze to the ground, embarrassed of his earlier actions.  
  
Gigi offers him a crooked smile, but does not attempt to ruffle his hair like he normally would, “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you’re fine now, kid.”  
  
Riccardo cannot help but worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In my mind it’s Andrea who shaves for Gigi as well, too annoyed with his constant whining when he cuts himself. I don’t know what kind of stuff they used for shaving back then, so I’m just leaving it vague here so everyone can fill in the gaps on their own.  
> \- The Sinti expanded from Germanic regions to Central and Southern Europe (including Italy) in the Late Middle Ages, which is possibly the reason their language (Sinti-Manouche) has notable German influences. However, there are next to no verified records about the Sinti or Roma people having their own language during this period, because they usually also spoke the language of the region they were living in.  
> \- I’m fairly sure they didn’t have a definition for a panic attack in the mediaeval times, and no one knew the standard way to act when someone started panicking, so Gigi and Andrea are just doing what comes natural to them, with mixed results.


	7. Chapter 7

_Duchy of Milan, 1455 AD_  
  
  
“You like him.”  
  
Gigi is trying to keep the accusation from his voice, going for a matter-of-fact statement instead. He is not quite succeeding, as Andrea raises an eyebrow, looking less than impressed with the comment.  
  
“He’s a sweet kid, of course I like him.”  
  
Riccardo is down by the river washing up, giving them a chance to have a moment for just the two of them. Gigi does not want to spend that moment arguing, but at the same time he knows they need to have this conversation rather sooner than later.  
  
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean,” he retorts quietly, unable to look Andrea in the eyes, which is unusual in itself, “You  _like_  him. It’s obvious.”  
  
Gigi is not jealous, not really. He is worried, though, worried what Riccardo’s presence might do to them – what it has already done to them.  
  
It has been almost three weeks since Gigi saved Riccardo from the bandits, two since the unfortunate episode in the woods. Riccardo’s wounds have finally closed up properly, although the ugly scars will probably remain for the rest of his life.  
  
They have stayed in one place far too long. The passing merchants may not care about them, but Gigi has seen people from the nearby village looking at them with suspicion in their eyes. It is just a matter of time before someone recognizes Gigi and the soldiers will come after them again.  
  
Sometimes Gigi hates their life: hates that they cannot live like normal people, settle down and have jobs, meet new people, have a family. But most of all he hates that it is all because of him that they are hunted like this.  
  
Andrea never complains, and it is what keeps Gigi going forward as well. If giving up everything he once knew is the price he has to pay for having Andrea by his side, he is more than willing to pay it. Over and over again, until they are old and wrinkled and too tired to keep moving anymore.  
  
Andrea is looking at Gigi with barely veiled disappointment, a look Gigi is not used to having directed at him, “Yes. I  _like_  him. Why’s that such a surprise to you? You were the one who brought him into the camp! You were all over him at the beginning!”  
  
“That’s before he made it painfully clear he didn’t want me around,” Gigi mutters half to himself, clenching his fists at his sides.  
  
He had tried. He tried to take Riccardo in, make him part of the group, but the boy kept backing away, flinching at his every touch, not opening up in the slightest.  
  
Gigi is not stupid, and neither is he insensitive no matter what Andrea tells him. He had allowed Riccardo to have his space when he realized how afraid of physical contact he was. But the distance has grown even wider since then, as Riccardo clings to Andrea for comfort, growing more familiar with him each passing day, no sign of fear in their contact.   
  
Andrea has even taken to sleeping with Riccardo in the tent, at least some part of the nights while Gigi is looking after the fire. It helps him fall asleep, Andrea explained to Gigi once.  
  
Gigi is  _not_  jealous.  
  
Andrea sighs in resignation when Gigi refuses to elaborate, closing the distance between them and pulling Gigi into a gentle hug, “You don’t know that. He’s been through a lot: he’s scared. You need to be patient with him.”  
  
Gigi presses his face into Andrea’s hair, takes in the familiar scent, wraps his own arms around Andrea’s waist.  
  
“I can see what you’re doing – you want to keep him around, just like you did with me back then,” he speaks up finally, voicing the worries he has been harbouring for days now, “We need to start moving soon, and he’s gonna hold us back, you said so yourself. I can’t protect someone who doesn’t trust me, and I don’t have time to be patient with him now.”  
  
Andrea tenses up at his words, but does not pull out of the embrace as he replies testily, “He won’t survive on his own.”  
  
Gigi knows it, maybe even better than Andrea ever could, and it breaks his heart to even suggest such a thing. But his priority is and will always be keeping Andrea safe, which is the reason he keeps talking.  
  
“I don’t want to leave him, you know I don’t,” he insists quietly, threading his fingers through Andrea’s unruly hair, “But he’s so dependent on you: he’s gonna divide your attention, put you in danger, and I won’t be able to help either of you. I’d rather cut him loose now than let that happen.”  
  
Andrea stays silent for a long time, obviously struggling with two opposing feelings.   
  
Gigi knows Andrea would never leave him, not for anyone, and definitely not for Riccardo who he has only known for a few weeks. But at the same time Gigi knows that deep down, Andrea is the more protective one of the two of them, the one who is fast to grow emotionally attached, who is willing to put other people’s safety ahead of his own.  
  
It is the reason why he saved Gigi’s life all those years ago, going against the tribe elders’ advice, and why he eventually left his family to stay with Gigi.  
  
Gigi used to be like that, too. It was the reason he decided to join the army: he wanted to protect people, fight in their place so they could lead peaceful lives. He used to be so happy if he could save one innocent life, make someone’s life happier.  
  
But the life in the army is harsh, and at some point he just stopped caring. Andrea was the one who brought back a part of the old Gigi – he is the one who keeps Gigi right.  
  
“Please, Andrea,” he whispers against his partner’s hair, his voice trembling slightly as he fights to keep his composure, “Please, I don’t wanna take that risk. I don’t wanna lose you.”  
  
“You’re never gonna lose me. We made a promise. Fifty years, remember?” Andrea hugs him even tighter, and Gigi knows he has made his decision, “I’ll talk to him. Tomorrow. And then we can leave.”  
  
Andrea sounds so dejected even through the decisiveness in his words, and Gigi feels like the worst person on earth, because it is a decision Andrea should never have had to make.  
  
  
Neither of them notices Riccardo, who has returned to the camp, only to stop a few feet away from them when he realized they were talking about him. He backs away quietly, returning only when he is sure the conversation is over.  
  
  
  
Andrea goes to sleep with Riccardo that night, probably more for his own comfort than Riccardo’s, for once. Gigi lets him, taking the first shift without complaint, sitting by the fire, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders for extra warmth.  
  
Autumn is steadily approaching, it is obvious all around them: the chilly nights, the withering flowers, the mushrooms and berries in the woods they could not find during the hottest summer months.  
  
They need to find a place to stay for the winter – it will be too cold to stay outside days and nights. Maybe he could find a place to work as a bodyguard, somewhere they could both stay, somewhere where people know not to ask questions about their past.  
  
Perhaps they could try crossing the border to Venice, move to territories they have yet to explore. Hide in the cities where the rising community of artists and intellectuals could not care less about their old crimes.  
  
Gigi is startled out of his thoughts when Riccardo clears his throat next to him to catch his attention.  
  
“Can I sit?” he asks shyly when Gigi turns to look at him, surprised he is not asleep yet. Andrea is nowhere to be seen, probably still in the tent.  
  
Riccardo sits on the ground next to Gigi after he gets a nod from him, careful to keep a safe distance between them. He says nothing, just settles down, staring at the slowly dying flames with a faraway look in his eyes.  
  
Gigi throws a few pieces of wood into the fire to keep it going. The flickering light of the flames is playing on Riccardo’s face, creating shadows that are not normally there, emphasizing how skinny he still is, even after eating regularly with them for three weeks.  
  
“I heard what you said to Andrea,” Riccardo says suddenly, interrupting Gigi’s thoughts again, “You don’t need to worry, I don’t intend to stick around. I’ll just— I’m leaving the first thing in the morning, okay? I’m used to being alone.”  
  
His eyes never stray from the fire, and Gigi cannot pick one emotion from his voice. Riccardo makes it so difficult for Gigi to read him, refuses to give out any clues of what he is really thinking. And despite everything, Gigi still finds himself wishing he could understand Riccardo.  
  
“Giampaolo was burned at the stake, you know,” Riccardo says when Gigi cannot find any words to answer him, his voice still devoid of emotion, eyes still refusing to meet Gigi’s, “He said he’d bewitched me to be his lover, so they killed him while I got off with flogging and banishment.”  
  
It is the first time Riccardo has volunteered so much information on his past, to either of them, and Gigi cannot help it: he is staring.  
  
Just like that, all the earlier hints make sense, all Riccardo’s actions – the jumpiness, the fear, the hopelessness, the fit in the woods – seem more than reasonable.  
  
“When was it?” Gigi cannot understand how Riccardo can be so calm while talking about it, how he can just say his lover was burned at the stake without showing any signs of sadness.  
  
Riccardo shrugs his shoulders, pursing his lips like trying to remember times long past, “Maybe a year ago? It was early summer when we were arrested, but I lost count of days after some weeks. I have no idea how long I was held there after he—”  
  
His voice cracks just slightly, but he stops speaking immediately, staring at the fire resolutely instead. Suddenly he looks so small, so lost, and it breaks Gigi’s heart.  
  
Gigi had thought they had it bad with Andrea, running away from their pasts, avoiding the soldiers and the inquisition, looking for something, something that might not even exist, always looking…  
  
And here sits Riccardo, whose whole life has been stolen away from him without any fault of his own, running away from his past, his present, his future – away from his own feelings, when after all he has been through, he should be crying his eyes out at the mere thought of his lover.  
  
“When was the last time you cried?” Gigi asks gently, afraid he might drive Riccardo away with his questions but also unable to stay quiet.  
  
Riccardo looks at him finally, his eyes reflecting the fluttering flames, colouring the light blue into reds and yellows, “I can’t cry. If I cry it’ll never stop.”  
  
“Then how do you handle it?” Gigi’s voice is constrained, as he is trying to hold back his own tears, brought on by the terrible lack of emotion in Riccardo’s voice that should not be there. He is just a child – he should not be like this, he should not be carrying something so big, so horrible.  
  
“I don’t,” Riccardo answers simply, “I just keep going forward, because that’s all I have left.”  
  
But Gigi knows it is not the entire truth: he saw how badly Riccardo reacted when his memory was triggered, saw how he clung to his letters after he thought he had lost them, sees how hard Riccardo is fighting to convince himself he is moving on when in reality he is still so very stuck in the past.  
  
At that moment Gigi understands with a new clarity that Riccardo will not survive on his own out there – physically he might be able to take care of himself, who knows, but emotionally he will be crippled beyond repair.  
  
“You don’t have to leave, you know,” Gigi finds himself saying before he can fully consider his actions, and as the words come out of his mouth he knows he means them.   
  
He is willing to take the risk even if it means putting all of them in danger, because for a flicker of a second there Gigi saw in Riccardo what Andrea has seen all along: a lost, broken boy who needs someone to stay by his side.  
  
For that flicker of a second Gigi found the feeling he used to reserve only for Andrea – he wants to keep Riccardo safe, no matter what.  
  
Riccardo is looking at him, and now Gigi can see confusion in his eyes – the first genuine emotion he has shown all night – “But you don’t want me here. I’m gonna hold you back, put you in danger.”  
  
Gigi shakes his head, regretting he said anything to Andrea in the first place, “Do you  _want_  to stay with us, Riccardo? That’s the only thing that matters, really.”  
  
Riccardo shuts his mouth and looks into the fire again, like unsure what kind of answer Gigi is expecting of him. But there is no right or wrong answer to this question.  
  
“You remind me of  _him_ ,” Riccardo finally says, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear in a nervous habit, “With Andrea, there’s still boundaries, what I can do and what I can’t. But I’m scared that with you— that with you I wouldn’t know when to stop, that I’d let you too close, that I’d get too attached—”  
  
He falls silent again, biting his lower lip nervously, before just briefly meeting Gigi’s eyes as he concludes: “I don’t wanna be left behind, not again. And you’re gonna leave me, both of you. Because you’re good together, you make each other better – and I’m just an intruder.”  
  
Gigi is stunned, because all this time he thought Riccardo did not want him around, when in fact he was scared of letting Gigi too close.  
  
“You shouldn’t worry about something like that. Andrea and I, we’ve been through a lot together, but that doesn’t mean we can’t share it with anyone else,” Gigi resists the urge to hug Riccardo who is still looking at Gigi with suspicion, “All you need to do is say it. Do you want to stay with us?”  
  
“Yes,” Riccardo breathes out, the surprise in his eyes revealing he did not expect the answer to come out so fast, “Yes, I’d like to stay with you.”  
  
“Then we’d be more than happy to have you,” Gigi answers solemnly, and he reaches out his hand, slowly, slowly, and caresses Riccardo’s cheek carefully with just his fingers.  
  
Riccardo does not flinch away – instead he closes his eyes, leans into the touch, and lets out a sigh that might be out of relief. Gigi cannot help but smile a little at the reaction.  
  
  
Andrea crawls out of the tent later in the night, his eyes scanning the surroundings as he looks for Riccardo who was supposed to be sleeping next to him.   
  
His momentary panic subsides when he finds the boy by the fire, comfortably curled on the ground inside Gigi’s blanket, fast sleep with his head pillowed in Gigi’s lap, Gigi’s long fingers gently combing through his hair.  
  
“So he’s staying?” Andrea asks quietly, dropping a kiss on top of Gigi’s head as he walks over to join his companions. Gigi offers him a sheepish smile in response, his fingers never stopping their caresses on the dark locks.  
  
Andrea stays up to tend the fire as Gigi picks up Riccardo and carries him back into the tent, careful not to wake him up.   
  
He settles down next to Riccardo after a moment’s consideration, a protective arm thrown around his prone form, and he falls asleep before he can even begin to think about what this new development is going to mean for all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Republic of Venice had been in war with the Duchy of Milan prior to this, so Gigi and Andrea had probably stayed away on purpose. While the area was far from peaceful even after the peace with Milan, the wealth from trade and the large number of rich families probably meant a good chance for Gigi to find a place to work.  
> \- In the middle of the 15th century the Italian Renaissance that had begun in Florence spread over to Venice as well: the wealth attracted many artists and writers, creating a new type of community in the city.  
> \- Long imprisonment was actually unusual at the time, but Riccardo’s case was really complicated so it probably took a long time to pass any kind of punishment. Flogging and banishment were both normal punishments, and in addition Riccardo lost all his property.


	8. Chapter 8

_Duchy of Milan, 1455 AD_  
  
  
“Just come at me, no need to hold back at all!” Gigi urges Riccardo after helping him up for the umpteenth time that afternoon.  
  
Riccardo does as he is told, rounding around Gigi, trying to find a weak spot before striking – only to be thrown down to the ground again.  
  
They have been on the road for days – maybe even weeks, Riccardo lost count at some point – setting their camp only for a night, always continuing their journey the next morning.   
  
Riccardo is not exactly sure where they are heading: Gigi mentioned something about Venice, but first they need information to figure out the safest route to cross the border.  
  
The constant travelling has taken its toll on Riccardo, who is having trouble keeping up with his companions even though his injuries are not bothering him anymore. Months of imprisonment and the prolonged infection of his wounds have practically destroyed whatever stamina he used to have.  
  
Riccardo never complained, but still he was extremely grateful when Andrea suggested staying put for a few days, just until they could figure out what they should do next. Obviously it was not the only reason, but Riccardo has learned to ignore the worried glances Andrea keeps throwing in his direction.  
  
He does not want to be a bother, not when Gigi and Andrea have been so good to him. When they actually let him come with them, become a part of their group.  
  
Riccardo has tried to be more useful. He has volunteered to take some shifts during the nights, tending the fire and keeping an eye on their surroundings, but he knows Andrea and Gigi are still letting him sleep longer than they are. They also never let him go far on his own, not even to pick berries or mushrooms, like afraid he might hurt himself the moment he is out of sight.  
  
Riccardo wants to be needed, and he wants to be worthy of the trust the couple have put in him by simply letting him stick around. It is why he immediately agreed to do combat training with Gigi instead of taking it easy on the first day in their new camp.  
  
Although for now the training consists mostly of Riccardo’s useless attempts to lay one strike on Gigi who is blocking his every try with one hand behind his back.  
  
“C’mon, you can do better than that!” Gigi is smiling widely as he offers his hand to pull him up again, “You’re from the aristocracy – don’t tell me you didn’t go through battle training before.”  
  
A reminder of his childhood, of the horrible fencing, archery, and hand-to-hand combat classes he had to endure without the support of Giampaolo, because a simple blacksmith’s son was not even allowed to the training grounds.   
  
The feeling of uselessness when all the other boys his age kept overpowering him.  
  
He stubbornly pushes the thoughts away, because thinking of his past would inevitably lead to thinking about Giampaolo and their imprisonment, and Riccardo does not want to trigger another fit like the one back when he had just met Gigi and Andrea.  
  
“Can we try with the swords next?” he asks as he accepts Gigi’s hand, almost stumbling against him when the man tugs him back onto his feet a bit too fast.  
  
Long sword he might be able to handle, because that is the one weapon Giampaolo taught him to wield after he returned from Bavaria – he needed somebody to test the new swords with before handing them to his customers, Giampaolo had told him.  
  
Riccardo now understands it was Giampaolo’s own way of ensuring Riccardo could take care of himself if they ever…  
  
Riccardo forces himself to focus on Gigi. Not Giampaolo, Gigi, who is trying to help him here and now.  
  
“You sure?” Gigi raises his eyebrows curiously but goes to fetch his swords anyways: one freshly sharpened, the other an old one he never uses but refuses to give up – it is a reminder of the sins he has committed, he once told Riccardo, but never elaborated on the subject.  
  
“You get the dull one – Andrea’s gonna kill me if you cut yourself with a proper blade,” Gigi says, glancing at his lover who is sitting at the edge of the clearing, pretending to study the maps they managed to get from a village on the way, although he has obviously been keeping an eye on them from the beginning.  
  
Riccardo does not argue. Gigi is good with the blade, he has seen it with his own eyes, and Riccardo knows he will not cut him, not even by accident.   
  
Momentarily he feels like there is something stuck in his throat, blocking his breath, because Giampaolo used to do the exactly same thing when they were sparring: giving Riccardo the old unsharpened sword because that was the easiest way to keep him from getting hurt.  
  
 _Gigi. Here. Now._  
  
“You ready?” Gigi asks as they stand to face each other, swords at hand. Gigi’s grip on the hilt is still lax, relaxed, and he is obviously unworried about Riccardo’s abilities. If Riccardo could only take advantage of his overconfidence—  
  
He manages three, four, five clashes of swords, he even dodges Gigi’s first attempt at disarming him. Two, three clashes more, Gigi is forcing him to go backwards, but Riccardo is still holding his own.   
  
Then his foot hits a root sticking out of the ground and he trips: the next moment he finds himself on his back on the ground again, Gigi’s sword pointing straight at his heart.  
  
Riccardo feels like cursing, yelling, because for a second he had felt like he could actually do something.  
  
Gigi just smiles and drops his sword to the ground before offering his hand to help Riccardo up once again, “Not bad. Maybe we should get you a sword, should be enough to fight off bandits at least.”  
  
Riccardo is still miffed, but he is also still holding his sword while Gigi is unarmed, so he takes his chance and hooks his leg around Gigi’s to trip him right at the moment he moves to pull Riccardo up.  
  
He uses the surprise to his advantage, tackling Gigi down as he loses his balance, straddling him and pinning him down with his own weight, the tip of his sword pressed against Gigi’s Adam’s apple.  
  
“Never lower your weapon if your opponent is still holding his,” Riccardo recites the words his old fencing teacher used to tell him. He is gasping for air and his muscles are aching from the exertion – he is so out of shape it is almost ridiculous – but there is also the honest thrill of victory.  
  
“You little cheat,” Gigi raises his hands in defeat with a laugh, before pushing the blade away from his neck and sitting up halfway, leaning back with one hand on the ground for support, looking at Riccardo expectantly.   
  
Riccardo puts his sword down obediently, but does not move off Gigi, momentarily forgetting how to move his aching legs, even forgetting that Andrea is watching them.  
  
“This is nice,” Gigi says softly, reaching out to stroke Riccardo’s flushed cheek, “It’s good to finally see you smile.”  
  
Riccardo immediately lifts a hand to his lips, even more surprised than Gigi to realize he really is smiling. Not wide, not obvious, but that little quirk of lips is still the closest thing to a real smile he has managed since he lost Giampaolo.  
  
“No need to hide it,” Gigi tells him, caressing Riccardo’s fingers with his thumb, urging him to move his hand away from his face, “You’re beautiful.”  
  
Gigi sits up the rest of the way and the next thing Riccardo knows, he can feel warm lips on his own.   
  
He freezes: he has no idea what is happening, what he is supposed to do, which one of them initiated the contact. The only thing he knows is that the gentle brush of lips on his feels kind of nice, and he is not supposed to feel like this, he is not supposed to enjoy Gigi kissing him, not when the last kiss he received was through the cold bars in his cell.  
  
There is an unfamiliar feeling of wetness on his cheek, and Riccardo realizes only after a moment that it is his own tears running down his face.  
  
“No!” he gasps after what feels like an eternity and pushes hard on Gigi’s chest to break the unwanted contact. He stumbles up to his feet, ignoring the way his legs are shaking, and dashes away from the clearing.  
  
He keeps running until his legs give out under him, and he does not know whether his trouble breathing is because of the lack of exercise or because of the panic clutching his insides.  
  
He screwed up, he screwed up big time, and this time there is no way Andrea and Gigi will let him stay with them. He has no right to kiss Gigi, no matter how much like Giampaolo he is – even if he lets Riccardo get away with cheating, lets him win on purpose just to make him happy, just like Giampaolo used to do.  
  
Gigi is not Giampaolo. Gigi belongs to Andrea, just like Andrea belongs to Gigi.   
  
Riccardo is not allowed to mess with that, he has no right to even dream of being a part of that, because he let Giampaolo die, he let the only person that was all  _his_  to die instead of him. All because of him.  
  
Riccardo hides in the shade of a large tree, leaning against the trunk, his legs pulled against his chest, trying to control his breathing, forcing the traitorous tears back from his eyes. What right does he have to cry, when everything he has experienced is his own fault?  
  
  
  
The sun has almost set before Andrea finally finds Riccardo in his hiding place, and he has not moved an inch in all that time.  
  
“Thank God,” Andrea says as he walks up to Riccardo, dodging the low-hanging branches, “I was afraid you’d got lost or hurt yourself or even worse.”  
  
He crouches down in front of Riccardo, searching his eyes but Riccardo refuses to meet his gaze, “Are you okay, Riccardo?”  
  
Riccardo has no answers, because Andrea is not supposed to be here. He is not supposed to be worried about Riccardo, who kissed his lover right in front of him when he had no right. They were supposed to leave Riccardo here, go to Venice by the two of them, just like they are meant to be.  
  
“I’m sorry, Andrea,” he finally whispers when the man just waits patiently for his answer, not budging from his spot, “I had no right. I’m sorry.”  
  
“If it’s about leaving like that, you should be sorry. We were worried sick!” Andrea scoffs roughly, but Riccardo can feel his hand in his hair, ruffling them, “If it’s about what Gigi did – he’s the sorry one. It was all on him, you did nothing wrong.”  
  
“But I kissed him!” Riccardo tries to argue, except the words get stuck in his throat and come out strangled, barely decipherable.  
  
“No, he kissed you,” Andrea retorts immediately, “I saw it: you merely let him do it, and even that only for a few seconds. You did nothing wrong, Riccardo. Nothing at all.”  
  
Riccardo is shaking again, his pulse picking up, and his eyes are stinging with the tears he forced to stay in earlier. He cannot cry, he cannot show Andrea how weak and useless he is. Andrea does not understand – he does not know how much Riccardo enjoyed that brief brush of lips, otherwise he would not be comforting him like this.  
  
Andrea does not say anything more, merely pulls Riccardo against his chest and waits until Riccardo is ready to open up to him.  
  
“But I liked it,” Riccardo admits finally, thankful his face is hidden against Andrea’s shirt, because he does not want to see the disgust and anger on Andrea’s face, “It’s not right, he’s not Giampaolo, he’s nothing like Giampaolo. It wasn’t meant to happen.”  
  
Andrea stays silent for a long while, before he pulls away from the hug and meets Riccardo’s eyes, “It’s not wrong to like someone else. It doesn’t mean you’re betraying him.”  
  
 _Like._  Is this what it is? Does he like Gigi? Does he like Andrea?   
  
Riccardo is not sure what it is he is experiencing with his new companions, his saviours. It is different from what he felt for Giampaolo: it is less intense, lacking that rush of pleasure and excitement being with Giampaolo gave him, but he does feel safe with them, he definitely does feel the fear of losing them, of being left behind.  
  
“I betrayed him a long time ago. He was my everything, and I let him down,” he whispers, reluctantly looking into Andrea’s gentle eyes, taking courage from them to keep on talking, “I’ve got no right to feel like that for anyone. I’ve got no right to wish for something like that…”  
  
“Nonsense,” Andrea tells him resolutely before he can go on, “There’s no right or wrong in loving someone. It’s not something you need permission for. It just happens.”  
  
Andrea has Riccardo’s hands in his own, his thumbs rubbing comforting circles around his knuckles to loosen his balled fists as he continues with a softer tone, “Gigi’s never kissed anyone but me before, you know. And yet he didn’t even hesitate with you. He really does care about you.”  
  
Riccardo is scared, so scared of what Andrea is trying to tell him that he almost wants to run off again, but at the same time he cannot look away from him, cannot stop clinging to his every word.  
  
“We  _both_  care about you, Riccardo,” Andrea looks at their joined hands, squeezes Riccardo’s fingers a bit tighter, “We’ve been running for so long, just Gigi and I, looking for someplace to call home. And then we found you, so hurt, so vulnerable. Neither of us has ever felt this strongly about anything before. Nothing has felt this right. And it doesn’t have to mean anything. It might be just a coincidence.”  
  
Andrea meets Riccardo’s eyes again, “But it doesn’t have to be. We could make it mean something. If you wanted it to.”  
  
The silence that follows is heavy, laden with too much emotion, uncertainty, fear, guilt. Riccardo has no idea what he should say – he does not even know what he should feel.  
  
Andrea smiles at him sadly, caresses his hair softly one more time before getting up, “There’s no hurry, just do what feels right. Nothing has to change: we can keep going like nothing ever happened. It’s all up to you, Riccardo.”  
  
He starts walking away, but turns to talk to Riccardo once more, like an afterthought, “We saved you some food, you haven’t eaten anything all day. Just come back to the camp when you’re ready, okay?”  
  
Riccardo follows Andrea’s tracks a bit later, the mention of food having reminded him of how hungry he really is.  
  
Gigi is sitting by the campfire that was not there when Riccardo left, sharpening the blade of his old sword. There is a pot of food set on the rocks right next to the fire, and Riccardo makes a beeline for it.  
  
“Is that for me?” he asks pointing at the sword when he has filled his bowl with the still warm soup, sitting next to Gigi carefully, not sure if he is welcome anymore.  
  
Gigi smiles at him, and the relief apparent on his face bleeds right into Riccardo’s body as well, “Yeah, this’ll have to do until we get you a proper one. Just carrying a sword should keep people from asking unnecessary questions, and you’re good enough to keep yourself from getting killed until we get there.”  
  
“And if you don’t?” Riccardo asks, but he shifts closer to Gigi anyways, tentatively leaning his shoulder against Gigi’s as he starts eating his dinner.  
  
“Don’t worry, we will,” Gigi assures him with a laugh and goes back to sharpening the blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The aristocrats were the basis of a mediaeval army, so all the boys were expected to go through battle training from a young age. Let’s just agree that Riccardo was more interested in the academic side of his education, especially after he actually managed to drag Giampaolo to take the classes with him.  
> \- Gigi got an ecclesiastic education growing up, i.e. he was supposed to become a priest, which obviously meant celibacy. It is likely it took him time to give up those teachings after he decided to join the army, and he probably had few chances to act on his feelings before meeting Andrea, because he was into guys.  
> \- Threesome was pretty much unheard of – or it happened but was never spoken of, more likely – but we’ve already seen that Andrea and Gigi are living by their own social norms. And really, who could resist Riccardo?


	9. Chapter 9

_Duchy of Milan, 1455 AD_  
  
  
Andrea is dozing by the campfire, only half-awake but his senses still heightened to recognize any possible threat.  
  
It is a skill he has picked up during his years with Gigi, after they were first ambushed by a group of bandits. They had to learn quickly that a full night’s sleep was a luxury they could rarely afford anymore.  
  
Even half-asleep, Andrea cannot shake the uneasy feeling he has been fighting for the past few days as they have continued their journey. He cannot quite place it – it is worry and fear and confusion and maybe a little jealousy all mixed together, and he has not dared to voice it to either Gigi or Riccardo.  
  
They are approaching the Venetian border, and while the war between Milan and Venice might be over, Andrea knows the maritime republic is still far from peaceful. Crossing the land by foot might expose them to unnecessary danger.  
  
On the other hand, the restlessness of the area might work in their favour if they play their cards right. Nobody will pay attention to three harmless travellers when they have larger enemies to fight.  
  
A change of scenery might do good for Riccardo as well: getting away from the places that keep reminding him of his past, building a new life by the coast, in a city full of trade and modern ideas—  
  
Andrea startles out of his reverie, surprised with himself, because this is the first time he has actually thought about  _having a life_  with Riccardo.  
  
Until now he has focused on the simple idea of helping the boy’s recovery, keeping him safe, making him feel loved, accepted. It has been all about Riccardo needing them, not the other way around. Never once has he stopped to think about what Riccardo might mean for him or Gigi in the long run.  
  
He knows Gigi is scared – of the sudden feelings Riccardo has awoken in him, of letting Andrea down, of hurting Riccardo without meaning to. Gigi never talks about it, prefers to keep his weaknesses hidden, but Andrea knows him too well, can see the little gestures that speak of his partner’s insecurities.  
  
But Gigi does not let the fear stop him. He has taken to training Riccardo in sword-fighting whenever they get a chance, and Andrea can see Riccardo improving in leaps. He can also see the adoring looks Gigi gives Riccardo amid the training, the gentle, casual touches that Riccardo has learned to accept.  
  
Getting close to Gigi has probably been the best thing that could have happened to Riccardo: he is finally smiling, even if most of the time it is just an unconscious twitch of lips, and he is talking more, even initiating contact from time to time.  
  
He is learning to live again, instead of the half-life he was living when Gigi found him.  
  
Andrea should be happy about it – this is exactly what he wanted, was it not – but instead he feels almost empty, left out,  _jealous_.  
  
He can still remember the momentary panic and the anger gripping inside him, when he saw Gigi kissing Riccardo.  
  
It was nothing more than a brief touch of lips, something that happened in the spur of the moment, something Andrea had known was coming ever since he saw Riccardo sleeping with Gigi by the campfire that night.  
  
And still he had not been prepared for it when it actually happened: it had reminded him so much of the first time Gigi kissed him, even the way Riccardo had run off was the same.  
  
For the first time, Andrea had found himself irrationally worrying that maybe Gigi could replace him, leave him behind.  
  
 _“I’ll take care of you, Andrea, I’ll find us a place where we can be safe, together. Forever.”_  
  
It had been just a fleeting thought, and Andrea had pushed it away the moment it entered his mind, the worry over Riccardo’s safety having preoccupied him at the time.  
  
He had told Riccardo they could make this mean something, the three of them together, if Riccardo wanted to. He had meant every word. It was a door to the unknown, an option so unusual none of them could possibly tell if there was any chance for it to work.  
  
At the time it seemed so simple: he had looked at Riccardo’s hopeless eyes, so sure he would be left alone again, so terrified of the mere possibility that he might be attracted to someone else than his late lover. Andrea had wanted to kiss him right then, to show him that it was alright to move on, that there were still reasons to keep on living.  
  
Riccardo has not given him an answer, not yet, and Andrea is not going to push him.  
  
Nothing has to change, Andrea had promised Riccardo, but how could it not?  
  
Andrea can see Gigi growing more and more fond of Riccardo with each passing day: the long looks, the secret smiles, the lingering touches. That he would give his old sword to Riccardo is much more important than Gigi lets out – it is the sword he cut Cassano with, the last reminder Gigi has of his past.  
  
Andrea himself is long past the silly little attraction phase, keeping a close eye on the boy, prepared to give him whatever he needs, everything to make him better.  
  
What scares Andrea is the question how far he would be willing to go to make Riccardo happy. Would he let Riccardo be with Gigi if that was all he wanted? Could he share Gigi if Riccardo’s affections did not include him? Could he ignore the jealousy that keeps bothering him whenever he sees Gigi and Riccardo together?  
  
But above all that, Andrea is terrified of hurting Riccardo even more: making him open up, making him feel again, and then in the end abandoning him. Because deep down Andrea knows that despite his petty jealousy, Riccardo will be the one left behind if anything goes wrong.  
  
The sound of Gigi’s steps behind him pull Andrea out of his thoughts, and he accepts the familiar kiss against his neck easily before getting up, more than ready to get a few hours of proper sleep. These quiet nights are the worst: he always ends up over-thinking everything.  
  
“I’ll cover Riccardo’s shift as well. He was really restless earlier, probably nightmares,” Gigi tells Andrea before he has a chance to crawl into the tent, “Better let him sleep now that he’s settled.”  
  
“He’s not gonna like it. He hates being babied,” Andrea quips before biding Gigi good night with a quick kiss on the lips.  
  
Riccardo is curled up on his side, legs pulled against his chest, pressed against the side of the tent, leaving more than enough space for Andrea to settle down next to him. He lies on his back, staring at the worn fabric above him even though it is too dark to see the uneven colouring.  
  
He has almost fallen asleep when he hears a quiet whimper next to him, followed by a soft “Please don’t.”  
  
Andrea sits up immediately like on instinct, the fear in Riccardo’s voice so real even if the cause of it is just in his head.  
  
“Riccardo?” he whispers, shaking his tense shoulder carefully, trying to wake him up without scaring him any more than necessary, “It’s not real, you’re safe here.”  
  
Riccardo wakes up with a start, and he tries to pull away from Andrea’s touch instinctively, eyes wide and breathing erratic, looking around like trying to figure out where he is.  
  
Andrea hushes him, tries to get an eye-contact, reaches out to stroke his hair as the lines between dream and reality begin to shape again in Riccardo’s mind, “It’s okay, Riccardo, nobody can hurt you here.”  
  
“Andrea…” Riccardo’s whisper is all he manages to get out, a complete loss of words, but he lets Andrea press a gentle kiss on his forehead, even wraps his arms around Andrea’s waist in response.  
  
The nights are the worst for both of them, apparently. A time when there is nothing to distract them from the dark corners of their own subconscious.  
  
“You wanna talk about it?” Andrea asks carefully once he can feel Riccardo relaxing in his arms.  
  
Riccardo shakes his head hesitantly, his face pressed against Andrea’s shirt, “This is fine. I’ll be fine.”  
  
Andrea does not pry, because whatever the dream was about, it is surely among the things Riccardo would rather forget. There will be a time when he needs to talk about the bad things, but tonight is not that time.  
  
“I keep seeing him,” Riccardo says suddenly, still hiding his face against Andrea’s chest, “Giampaolo, whenever I fall asleep. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s— I don’t know. Like I’m betraying him? Like I’m forgetting what we had. Like I’m moving farther and father away from him.”  
  
“Is it because of Gigi?” Andrea asks after a brief consideration, keeping his voice carefully neutral, urging Riccardo to keep talking.  
  
“Because of Gigi. Because we’re leaving Milan. Because I’m letting somebody else in, when he was supposed to be the only one for me,” Riccardo is choosing his words carefully, speaking slowly, hesitating after every word, and his arms around Andrea tighten their hold before he finishes, “It’s you. The both of you.”  
  
Andrea finally takes a hold of Riccardo’s face, urges him to look up into his eyes. The tent is too dark to actually see the amazing blue of Riccardo’s eyes, but Andrea knows there is fear and confusion even without the visual aid.  
  
“You won’t forget,” he assures Riccardo quietly, caressing the soft cheek with his thumb, “You’re living on, just like he would’ve wanted. It won’t wipe away the time you had together.”  
  
Andrea remembers the night his wife died, the pain and the tears, the horrible fear that he would never get over it. He also remembers how much having Gigi next to him helped even then – the silent comfort from a man he barely knew, but who wound up saving his life in the end, in more ways than one.  
  
Riccardo is biting his lip, hesitant, his eyes pleading Andrea to keep on talking.  
  
“There’s no limit to how many people we can love,” Andrea continues after a careful consideration, “I love Gigi with all my heart, but that doesn’t demean the love I had for my wife. Or the love I could hold for you.”  
  
The last words are barely louder than a whisper, and now it is Andrea’s turn to be nervous, afraid of what Riccardo might make of his words.  
  
Riccardo looks at him for a long time, searching his eyes for the answers neither of them have. He loosens his arms from Andrea’s waist, sitting up properly to face him instead, their faces only inches apart.  
  
“Is it really okay? Like this?” Riccardo asks softly, his voice trembling just slightly, and Andrea can feel his breath on his dry lips, and he licks them instinctively.  
  
He lets Riccardo make the first move – fingers on his face, the tips ghosting over his lips, caressing his beard tentatively, and then the soft lips on his, just enough pressure to make Andrea part his lips and return the kiss cautiously.  
  
Riccardo kisses differently from Gigi, not nearly as dominant, but not exactly submissive either – more curious and thoughtful instead. He nibbles Andrea’s lower lip softly, before slipping the tip of his tongue against his lips, tasting the insides of his mouth when Andrea allows him entrance right away.  
  
They part for air after what feels like an eternity, and Riccardo is looking at Andrea with half-lidded eyes, looking almost scared, but there is a small smile on his lips.  
  
“Is this okay?” Andrea asks, returning Riccardo’s question back at him. He meets Riccardo’s tongue with his own when the boy leans in to close the gap between them, now demanding the command of the kiss, and Riccardo lets him, opening his mouth under Andrea’s.  
  
Andrea’s hand is lying on Riccardo’s thigh, the fabric of his trousers wrinkling as he runs his hand upward, pushing his tunic up until he can feel the warm skin of Riccardo’s abdomen under his fingertips.  
  
Riccardo whines softly against Andrea’s mouth, and he grips Andrea’s shoulders almost painfully as he leans back, allowing Andrea to press him against the thin mattress, the kiss never breaking.  
  
Andrea is so turned on – amazed by Riccardo’s responsiveness and the mere contrast between Riccardo and Gigi – that is takes a while for him to realize that Riccardo is shaking under his touch. When he pulls away from the kiss, Andrea can see that he is struggling to draw a breath, his eyelids pressed closed tightly.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, sitting up fast and helping Riccardo up as well, rubbing his back and encouraging him to breathe, slowly, slowly…  
  
Fortunately the fit subsides much faster than the one in the woods back when Andrea first witnessed something like this. Andrea does not let go of Riccardo, though, cradling him in his arms and whispering comforting words into his ear long after his breathing has returned to normal again.  
  
“I’m fine now,” Riccardo assures him as he finally pulls away, Andrea letting go of him reluctantly, “Really, I am. It’s just— I haven’t— Since Giampaolo…”  
  
Riccardo looks down at his lap, at the bulge apparent through his tunic and trousers, and Andrea could swear there is a blush on his face even though it should not be possible to see it in the dim lighting.  
  
“Sorry, I was moving too fast,” he apologizes again with a forced smile even as he feels like kicking himself – he should have known, he should have not pushed Riccardo any further than that first kiss, “I’ll give you a moment, okay?”  
  
It is more a moment for himself than for Riccardo, Andrea thinks bitterly as he exits the tent. His erection is rubbing against his trousers uncomfortably, and he knows it would have only gotten worse had he stayed that close to Riccardo.  
  
“Aren’t you supposed to be sl—” Andrea cuts Gigi’s question with a demanding kiss as he slips into his lap, rubbing his crotch against his lover unashamedly.  
  
“That bad huh?” Gigi asks with a laugh as he pulls away from the kiss, searching Andrea’s face amusedly, “And I thought I was the one moving too fast.”  
  
“Shut up,” Andrea huffs and pulls him into another kiss, moaning appreciatively against his lips as Gigi slips his hand into his pants and takes a hold of his cock, stroking him in fast, familiar jerks.  
  
“Fuck,” Andrea gasps when the firm strokes push him over the edge and he spills his seed into his trousers and on Gigi’s hand, “Fuck, how am I supposed to sleep next to him now?”  
  
“The same way you sleep next to me,” Gigi grins and steals another kiss, “Though if you decide to have morning sex, I demand an invitation.”  
  
“It’s gonna take a while before he’s ready for that,” Andrea replies as he gets off Gigi’s lap, although he sits down next to him instead of going back to the tent just yet, “And why’d you think you’d be allowed to join? He ran away when you tried to kiss him, you oaf.”  
  
He is joking, obviously, and Gigi laughs good-naturedly before answering, “So did you, back then. Don’t see you complaining.”  
  
Andrea hums in agreement, his head rested on Gigi’s shoulder and eyes drooping from the lack of sleep.  
  
Gigi shakes him awake maybe half an hour later, telling him to go back to bed before Riccardo thinks he has been abandoned. Andrea follows orders obediently, only to find Riccardo in peaceful sleep right where he left him, his face buried into the blanket Andrea was using earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Republic of Venice was expanding both in Italy and into other foreign regions in the 15th century, so the area was hardly peaceful even after the peace with the Duchy of Milan. Most notably the Ottoman Empire was fighting Venice for the maritime control of the Mediterranean.  
> \- However, Venice was mostly known for their trade, and the population of the city grew fast, so it was probably an ideal place for people who wanted to “disappear”, like our beloved trio here.  
> \- Sorry for taking so long to update, I was struggling with how fast this relationship could develop, so I just kind of kept putting it off until now...


	10. Chapter 10

_Duchy of Milan, 1455 AD_   


  
_Giampaolo has Riccardo pinned down to the bed. Soft cushions and smooth linen under his back, the gentle hues of candles lighting up the room. The lips on his feel familiar, gentle, the short stubble scratches his chin.  
  
“Please, Giampaolo,” he whimpers against the intoxicating lips, begging for what, Riccardo does not even know.  
  
Hands on bare skin, caressing his buttocks, pulling his hips flush against Giampaolo’s. Riccardo feels his lover’s erection pressed against his thigh, and he pushes against it, craving for the contact.  
  
His Giampaolo, here with him, forever.  
  
Giampaolo’s lips freeze on his neck, the touch suddenly hesitant, distant, cold.  
  
“This is not real,” Riccardo knows, has known all along, but he truly understands it only when the words leave his lips. Giampaolo is gone, and he is not coming back. Riccardo is all alone.  
  
“No, it’s not,” a new voice from behind him, quiet and raspy, and Riccardo feels the soft brush of beard on his skin as Andrea presses his lips against his ear, nibbling the lobe gently, “Doesn’t mean you’re alone.”  
  
Giampaolo continues downwards, kissing his way down his chest. Except it is not Giampaolo but Gigi when Riccardo looks at him, sharp blue eyes meeting his, large hands gripping his hips almost painfully.  
  
“Is it okay?” Andrea asks him, ghosting his lips over Riccardo’s ear, and the cool breath makes shivers run down Riccardo’s spine, “Like this?”  
  
Gigi is kissing his abdomen, just inches away from his erection, but still too far, always too far. Riccardo needs this, his body is screaming for this.  
  
“Please?” he gasps, leaning back against Andrea’s chest, pushing his hips against Gigi’s hands.  
  
“You’re the one who should’ve died.”  
  
Riccardo’s eyes snap open, and for a while he can see the disgusted faces looking down at him – his mother, father, brother, Cassano, the townspeople of Caravaggio – and then Giampaolo is back, standing above them, his eyes sad, disappointed, angry.  
  
“But you’re not real, you’re gone,” Riccardo whispers, and then he is alone again, Gigi and Andrea disappearing along with Giampaolo.  
  
He is alone, as he should be._  
  
  
  
Riccardo wakes up just as the first light of dawn spreads over the meadow they are staying at. The campfire has gone out in the light drizzle that has started while he was asleep, the charred remains still smoking.  
  
He feels cold even with the thick cloak and the blanket wrapped over his shoulders, the rain water dribbling down his face as he shakes his head to get his hair out of his eyes.  
  
Andrea and Gigi may have had the right idea after all, when they insisted that Riccardo should not worry about the watch shifts just yet. He still has trouble sleeping through the nights, the fear of nightmares and flashbacks keeping him awake, only falling asleep when the fatigue gets the better of him.  
  
So obviously he would nod off when he finally managed to persuade his companions that he would be fine taking the last lookout so that Andrea and Gigi could have decent amount of sleep for once.  
  
Riccardo feels like kicking himself.  
  
He stretches out his numb legs from under him, trying to ease the unpleasant itching as the blood rushes back into his limbs. He notices his erection only when he gets up, his trousers riding up and rubbing against his crotch uncomfortably.  
  
“Shit…” he mutters as he attempts to straighten his clothes, to make them more comfortable. He cannot quite remember what he was dreaming of – he remembers Giampaolo, and then there are flashes of Gigi and Andrea, and the loss, the sadness, the terrible loneliness.  
  
He tries to will the erection away as he makes his way towards the small pile of firewood waiting in the relative shelter by the tent. But his body is refusing to cooperate, defying even the cold seeping into his limbs that really should diminish the arousal.  
  
It has been a constant struggle between his mind and body lately.  
  
He is afraid of his own reactions – of the panic that threatens to take over whenever he allows Gigi or Andrea to touch him, because it is  _not right_ , he has no right – but it does not stop his body from reacting to the proximity, to the casual touches.  
  
Riccardo remembers Andrea’s hands on him, the demanding lips almost scalding on his. He had wanted it so much, wanted to let Andrea take him, mark him as his own, shake away the fear.  
  
Until it all came stumbling down – the flashes of Giampaolo’s lips on his, of Cassano’s manic grin, of the fires and the disgusted jeers – and Andrea had stopped just before he could push him away.  
  
It had  _hurt_ , but Riccardo is still unsure whether it was the panic or Andrea’s rejection that was more painful. Because when Andrea left the tent to go to Gigi, it had reminded Riccardo that he would always be the one left behind.  
  
He crouches down to pick up the wood, too damp but he still needs to try and get the fire going again, before the last embers go out. His erection is aching as his pants rub against his crotch again with the sudden movement, but he forces himself to ignore it.  
  
Riccardo is about to walk away from the tent when he hears a strangled groan from inside and stops on his tracks.  
  
It is just Gigi making noise in his sleep, he assures himself, but he can hear people shifting, and then there is Andrea’s voice, barely more than a whisper but still loud like a shout in the quiet morning rain, “Harder, please, Gigi.”  
  
Riccardo’s cock twitches painfully, and he could swear his pants are growing tighter by the second. His hands are shaking almost uncontrollably, panic waiting just around the corner, and the knowledge of it makes him feel even more scared.  
  
There is hard breathing now, rhythmic gasps with an odd moan in between, and Riccardo thinks he can also hear the sound of thighs hitting against hips, but maybe he is imagining it, the memories of his past mixing with the current.  
  
Andrea lets out a louder moan, which is enough to make Riccardo’s hands give out, the firewood clattering down to ground.  
  
An embarrassing whimper escapes Riccardo’s lips when his already overly sensitive cock demands to be touched as he crouches down again, hiding his face into his hands, trying to stop the shaking that has spread from his hands to his whole body now.  
  
The sounds inside the tent quiet down, and Riccardo half-expects the scuffle of clothes getting pulled on. Instead, he can only hear Gigi’s worried voice over his own frantic breathing, “Riccardo? You out there?”  
  
“I’m okay,” Riccardo manages to grit out when it dawns to him there is no point in trying to hide his presence, “I’m just— being clumsy, is all.”  
  
There is a brief sound of movement, which is interrupted by Andrea’s muffled hiss, “Don’t you dare to move.”  
  
“You’re joking, right?” Riccardo can hear exasperation in Gigi’s voice, but there is also amusement and affection, and then he is addressing Riccardo again, “Sorry, a bit preoccupied here. Though you can come in if you like.”  
  
Riccardo hesitates for a long while, panic and arousal fighting inside him, but finally he makes up his mind – Gigi is inviting him in, and if he refuses this now, he will really be alone, he will have refused the last chance he was offered.  
  
“Is it really okay?” he asks shyly, balling his fists in last desperate attempt to stop the shaking.  
  
“It’s up to you,” Gigi answers, smiling at Riccardo when he finally dares to crawl inside the tent, “It’s always been up to you.”  
  
Riccardo flushes bright red as he takes in the sight before him: Andrea is lying on his back, his legs wrapped around Gigi’s hips insistently, stopping him from pulling away. Gigi’s cock is buried inside him to the hilt, while Andrea’s erection is jutting against his stomach, pressed between their bodies as Gigi leans down, supporting himself on his forearm, other hand buried in Andrea’s hair.  
  
They look so right together, and once again Riccardo feels like he is intruding something intimate, something that has no place for him.  
  
 _”There’s no place for sinners like you in this world. Never will be. You’d be better off dead.”_  
  
He shakes Cassano’s jeers out of his mind, biting his lip to stop it from quivering.  
  
Cassano is wrong: Giampaolo believed they could build a safe place to call their own, Andrea told him they could find that place, and Riccardo is desperate to believe it too.  
  
Gigi is moving again, driving into Andrea’s body in fast thrusts, mouthing Andrea’s neck to hide his own low noises. His eyes keep flickering to Riccardo’s face with every other thrust, like making sure he is still watching.  
  
Riccardo could not turn away even if he wanted to. His cock is straining painfully against his trousers and his breathing is uneven, coming out in short puffs. But even if it is scary and the urge to run away is still there, Gigi is keeping him rooted in place, making him feel like a part of this.  
  
 _“There’s no limit to how many people we can love.”_  
  
Riccardo wants to touch himself, to ease the aching that starts from his groin and spreads all over his body, the need more imminent than the fear, the flashbacks, the panic.  
  
“Come here, Riccardo,” Gigi tells him softly, halting his movements and sitting up on his knees, earning a disappointed groan from Andrea who is squirming in attempt to get more contact.  
  
“Please,” Gigi adds belatedly, smiling encouragingly at Riccardo who slowly closes the small distance still separating them, until he is right next to Gigi, close enough to feel the warmth eliciting from his body.  
  
“All up to you,” Gigi whispers to him, before he leans in to brush his lips against Riccardo’s, who lets out a surprised gasp into the kiss.  
  
Gigi takes Riccardo’s hand, carefully leading it to Andrea’s cock, his hold loose enough to allow Riccardo to pull away if he wished to. Andrea groans at the first touch, bucking into Riccardo’s hand as soon as he wraps his fingers tentatively around the length.  
  
“It’s okay like this,” Gigi assures him, his lips brushing Riccardo’s with each word, and then he catches them into another kiss, more dominant and possessive, while he picks up the pace of his thrusts again, his hand moving from Andrea’s cock to his hip to steady his movements.  
  
Andrea comes with a constrained moan only after a few more thrusts, trying to push against Riccardo’s hand and Gigi’s cock at the same time.  
  
“Come, Gigi,” he gasps out between his own erratic breaths, and Gigi follows the command immediately, halting his movements, buried completely inside Andrea, his lips never leaving Riccardo’s.  
  
Riccardo closes his eyes when Gigi finally releases his lips, not daring to open them, unsure whether he is allowed to look at his companions now that the moment is over.  
  
He is scared that the spell will be broken, that the panic could come crashing back any moment now.  
  
Andrea sits up, and Riccardo can feel one of his hands caressing his back comfortingly while the other takes a hold of his hand, pulls it away from his softening cock and brings it to his lips gently.  
  
“You’re shaking, Riccardo,” he notes unnecessarily, running his thumb over Riccardo’s knuckles in attempt to calm him down, kissing his palm, “You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to, remember that.”  
  
“It’s all up to you,” Gigi adds, speaking right into his ear, and somehow that simple mantra is making Riccardo feel better, safer.  
  
“I want to,” he admits, forcing himself to draw a deep breath before opening his eyes, his gaze flickering between Gigi’s and Andrea’s faces, like looking for a confirmation that it is alright, that he is not crossing too many boundaries at once.  
  
“It’s okay to feel scared,” Andrea tells him quietly as he guides Riccardo to straddle his hips, safely huddled between two bodies, welcoming and warm, “It’s okay to miss him.”  
  
Gigi pulls off Riccardo’s tunic, running his fingers over the scars on his back, tracing each of them carefully like memorizing them. Riccardo shivers under the touch, because those scars are an imminent reminder of his past.  
  
“It’s okay to cry, too,” Andrea assures him, his fingers working to open the bindings of Riccardo’s trousers, finally releasing his erection and caressing it gently, drawing a quiet moan from Riccardo’s lips.  
  
Gigi is kissing his shoulder, following the deep scar stretching over his upper back. One of his hands is resting on Riccardo’s thigh, while he wraps the other around his waist, reaching for his cock, threading his fingers around Andrea’s to match his slow jerks.  
  
“You deserve this, Riccardo,” Andrea whispers into his ear, “You deserve to be loved.”  
  
Riccardo breaks down as he comes, spilling his seed over Gigi’s and Andrea’s fingers, clinging to Andrea’s neck and crying into his shoulder, his whole body shaking with the sobs that he has suppressed for far too long.  
  
He has no idea how long they stay like that, Andrea rubbing his back and telling him it is alright,  _just let it all out_ , while Gigi hugs him from behind, kissing his hair and whispering sweet nothings into his ear.  
  
At some point, Riccardo falls asleep in the warm embrace, and for once there are no nightmares.  
  
  
  
 _Giampaolo is cradling Riccardo in his arms, humming softly under his breath, playing with his hair like it was the most fascinating thing in the world._  
  
 _“This is not real,” Riccardo whispers into his chest, “You’re not real.”_  
  
 _“No, I’m not,” Giampaolo admits, but he does not let go of Riccardo._  
  
 _“I think I found it, Giampaolo,” Riccardo tells him, even though he knows this is not really his lover, knows that Giampaolo is gone, “I think I found a safe place to be.”_  
  
 _“That’s good,” Giampaolo’s voice is moving further away from him even though Riccardo can feel him kissing his closed eyelids, “That’s good, my little angel.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Nothing much to say really. Hope you enjoyed the porn?  
> \- No, Giampaolo is not a ghost and this is not turning into anything supernatural. It’s really just Riccardo dreaming.  
> \- I’ve finally outlined the rest of the story, and we should be done after four more chapters. That’s right, I’m not quite done bullying my babies just yet.


	11. Chapter 11

_Duchy of Modena and Reggio, 1455 AD_  
  
  
“We need horses,” Gigi muses as he strides down the road ahead of Andrea and Riccardo, “And maybe a carriage. Make it seem like we’re merchants just passing through – Venice’s got lots of trade, they won’t suspect anything.”  
  
They have travelled along the borders of the Venetian republic for a few days now, leaving Lombardy behind, steadily approaching the Western coast. They cannot avoid crossing the border for much longer, despite the risks associated with it.  
  
“Why don’t we go through Ravenna? We could pass through Ferrara to get there, then hitch a ride from some trading ship to the capital?” Andrea’s question takes Gigi by surprise, having not even realized he was voicing his thoughts aloud until then.  
  
Yes, life in Ravenna has apparently been quite peaceful after the initial uproar when the province was annexed by Venice. It would certainly beat going through the Venetian territories on foot. Gigi remembers the city of Ravenna from the time he was still with the army, so close to Rome, the annexation a real risk to the Papal States at the time.  
  
“We’d have to take a huge detour, go further south,” he mumbles absent-mindedly, biting the skin on the tip of his thumb, a nervous habit he has never managed to get rid of, “We’d be so close to Rome, too. Someone might recognize us.”  
  
Gigi and Andrea have tried to avoid going to Rome since they first left, the risk of getting caught far too dire. Once they had to pass through, and back then they had been extremely lucky to escape the army and Gigi’s old commander who had recognized him right away.  
  
Once a traitor always a traitor, Gigi thinks bitterly.  
  
He does not want to take that risk now, not when he has not only Andrea but also Riccardo to look after. The boy has gotten better with the long sword, Gigi must give him that, but he would still be no match to a trained soldier.  
  
“What happened in Rome? I thought you were born there?” Riccardo asks, sounding only mildly curious. A bright blush rises on his cheeks immediately when Gigi turns his head to look at him over his shoulder, like only now realizing he might have crossed a line without meaning to, “If it’s okay to ask, of course. Sorry.”  
  
“You shouldn’t apologize,” Andrea tells Riccardo gently, reaching out to ruffle his hair, “We’re in this together. We’re not keeping any secrets from you, so if you wanna know something, you can just ask.”  
  
Riccardo smiles shyly – he is so very beautiful when he smiles, it still takes Gigi by surprise every time he does it – and ducks his head to avoid Gigi’s searching eyes, “It’s alright, I’ve still got lots of things I haven’t told you either.”  
  
Gigi sighs deeply, stopping and turning to face Riccardo properly. They have gone through this many times since that night – since Riccardo let them in and actually cried, properly cried, probably for the first time since his lover was executed.  
  
“I attacked my commanding officer, to protect a gypsy tribe we were supposed to wipe out,” he tells with a wistful smile, letting out a humourless chuckle, “A huge bastard, that one; don’t know why I never fought him before that.”  
  
Riccardo is looking at him now, stunned, realization flashing in the wide blue eyes even before Gigi concludes, “It was Andrea’s tribe. His wife was killed that night. That’s how we ended up together.”  
  
Riccardo’s gaze flickers towards Andrea before returning to Gigi’s face, “So, did you kill him? Your superior?”  
  
“Nah, he was alive last time I heard of him. Apparently left the army for the inquisition—”  
  
Andrea interrupts Gigi by clearing his throat loudly before he can end the sentence, shooting a worried look at Riccardo who has started shaking just slightly in desperate attempt not to cry, biting the inside of his lip, his eyes watering involuntarily despite his best efforts.  
  
Gigi realizes his mistake immediately – Riccardo is far from recovered from his trauma with the inquisition, so bringing it up just like that must have triggered a memory. He takes a step forward and pulls the boy into his arms without another word, beyond relieved when he feels Riccardo relaxing into his embrace almost immediately.  
  
“Sorry,” Riccardo whispers against his shoulder as the tears finally fall against the fabric of his shirt, “I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”  
  
“Don’t be silly,” Gigi answers him quietly, petting his hair comfortingly, pressing a kiss on his forehead, “It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have brought it up at all. It wasn’t even important.”  
  
Riccardo sniffles quietly, wrapping his arms around Gigi’s waist, and Gigi is actually happy for his reaction: not because he is crying, but because he feels comfortable enough around them to show how much he is hurting. To accept help from people around you is the first step towards healing, after all.  
  
Andrea’s sharp “Gigi!” draws his attention away from Riccardo and to the rustle in the woods around them, but by the time he lets go of the boy and draws out his sword, they are already surrounded by a troupe of bandits.  
  
No, not regular bandits, Gigi’s brain supplies as he studies the men around them, but gypsies. He glances at Andrea, who is looking apparently relaxed, although Gigi can see his knives peeking out of his sleeves. Riccardo has drawn his sword as well, his face still blotchy and tear-streaked.  
  
“Look what we have here,” a tall gypsy is the first one to speak, stepping out of the line, inside the circle surrounding them, triumphant smile lighting up his face, “Andrea, still up to your blood-traitor ways, I see.”  
  
Gigi raises his eyebrows, not daring to look at Andrea as the man walks closer, unsure whether it is a good thing that this man knows his companion.  
  
“Zlatan,” Andrea addresses the man calmly, sounding almost  _annoyed_ , but not exactly alarmed which makes Gigi let out the breath he was holding, “Still pestering innocent citizens, I see. It’s because of idiots like you that  _Romani_  have such a bad reputation.”  
  
The man barks out a laugh, lowering his sword but not making any attempt to tell his men do the same, “They should feel honoured to be associated with Zlatan, the ungrateful bastards.”  
  
To Gigi’s surprise, Andrea lets out a chuckle of his own, “And you wonder why you’ve got no friends.”  
  
Then the man, Zlatan, takes a final step towards Andrea – Gigi tenses, his hold on the sword tightening instinctively – and pulls the man into a bear hug, patting his back with maybe more strength than necessary.  
  
“So, could your men lower their weapons now?” Andrea asks dryly when he manages to release himself from the embrace, “We’re no threat, just passing through.”  
  
Zlatan nods at the man closest to him, and the gypsies lower their weapons one by one, shooting confused look at each other.  
  
Gigi makes no move to put his sword away though, and neither does Riccardo whose worried eyes meet Gigi’s when he notices the sideways glance the old soldier is giving him.  
  
“That won’t do – what kind of a friend would I be if I let you go off without at least offering a feast,” Zlatan grins wolfishly, turning to look at Gigi before his eyes settle on Riccardo, “Your friend doesn’t look that good, would certainly benefit from a proper meal.”  
  
He is approaching Riccardo as he speaks, not at all worried about the sword he is holding, and the boy lets out a distressed whimper, stepping closer to Gigi for security, who in turn takes a step forward to put himself between Riccardo and Zlatan.  
  
“That won’t be necessary,” Andrea says sharply, rounding Zlatan to put himself in front of Riccardo as well, “Thanks for the offer, but we really ought to be on our way.”  
  
“I don’t think you remember who you’re talking to,” Zlatan drawls with a smirk, “I heard you’d been seen in the area, so I decided to take a look. You’re in my territory, so you’re playing with my rules. Or you’d rather I contact  _your_  tribe? That boy of yours has been looking for you for some time now.”  
  
Andrea tenses up visibly, his eyes flashing towards Gigi before answering, “Niccolò has? Why’d he do that?”  
  
“Oh, the usual. What’d you do if your blood traitor of a father had abandoned you for the brute that killed you mother?” Zlatan glances at Gigi unabashedly, distaste apparent in his voice, “I’m sure he’d love to catch up with his old man and his— friends?”  
  
Gigi is about to lash out – how can this man speak to Andrea like that, as if he knew anything that had happened to him – but Andrea sets a hand on his chest to calm him down before he can say anything, answering calmly, “Fine, we’re coming with you. Show the way.”  
  
Zlatan’s threatening demeanour is gone immediately, but Gigi knows not to trust it – this guy wants something from them, there is no doubt about that.  
  
“Let’s go,” Andrea tells them softly as the men around them start moving into the woods, although still keeping a close eye on the three of them. He sets a calming hand on the small of Riccardo’s back, meeting Gigi’s eyes steadfastly, “Zlatan’s insane, but he’s not ruthless. Let’s just do as he says for now.”  
  
“How’d you know him?” Gigi asks quietly as they follow the gypsy troupe through the woods, “I haven’t met him before, have I? A nose like that’d be hard to forget.”  
  
“Practically grew up with him,” Andrea answers, keeping his voice low to keep the men around them from overhearing, “His father was the chief of a neighbouring tribe, and he was close to my chief – father-in-law – until his death. They moved their camp only when Zlatan became the chief.”  
  
Riccardo is not saying a word, just following them silently, a bit too close to Andrea for it to be accidental, Andrea’s hand on his back unwavering.  
  
“You okay, Riccardo?” Gigi asks after making sure the gypsies around them are occupied with their own discussions.  
  
Riccardo bites his lip, finally wiping his face on his sleeve to get rid of the tear tracks on his cheeks, “Yeah, it’s just the way he was looking at me— It reminded me of the inquisitor in Caravaggio, when they first caught us.”  
  
His voice is trembling, old memories obviously running rampant in his mind, and Gigi reaches out to stroke his hair soothingly, kissing his hair before whispering in his ear, “It’ll be okay. I promised I wouldn’t let anything happen to you, didn’t I?”  
  
“I know,” Riccardo whispers, but his voice is so thin, so uncertain, that Gigi cannot help but wonder if he really does.  
  
  
  
The promised feast is alarmingly uneventful, Zlatan sharing wild stories from his and Andrea’s youth accompanied with barks of laughter and powerful bounding on Andrea’s back, while the rest of the tribe exchange uneasy looks with each other.  
  
They are also shooting suspicious glances in Gigi and Riccardo’s direction as the night goes on, obviously uncomfortable with having ‘outsiders’ in their camp. A young boy tries to approach Riccardo, staring at his light blue eyes curiously, only to back away when he is told off by his mother.  
  
“Man, those were the days,” Zlatan chuckles as he digs into a piece of boar meat – the food is exquisite, Gigi must give him that – “Who would’ve thought we’d end up so different: a renowned chief and a traitorous coward.”  
  
“Andrea’s not a coward!” Riccardo snaps before he brings a hand to his mouth, obviously surprised at his own outburst. Gigi presses a hand on his knee, stroking it gently to assure him that it is alright, he did nothing wrong.  
  
Had Riccardo not said anything, Gigi probably would have, and he suspects Zlatan has more tolerance for Riccardo, who has no history with the gypsies, than he has for Gigi.  
  
“A feisty little one, aren’t you,” Zlatan’s grin is wide, revealing far too many teeth, as he leans forward to get a proper look at Riccardo, “A noble, aren’t you? What do you know about our lives, our rules?”  
  
Riccardo blushes, leaning a bit closer to Gigi for moral support before answering, “Nothing. But I do know that it takes a lot of courage to leave the comfort of your home behind – to live the way you want to instead of following the existing path laid out for you.”  
  
Andrea is smiling, just a little twitch at the corner of his mouth, a gentle smile of acceptance directed just at the two of them, his eyes full of affection.  
  
Zlatan scoffs out a surprised laugh, sitting up straight, breaking his impromptu staring contest with Riccardo, “Big words for a kid. But I wouldn’t expect your kind to understand what family means for our people.”  
  
Andrea speaks up before Riccardo can retort again, “And I wouldn’t expect you to understand what it means to go against all that, Zlatan. That’s why I’m with Gigi and Riccardo – we’re the same, we’re our own family.”  
  
“You call that a family,” Zlatan mutters, deep disdain in his voice as he eyes Gigi and Riccardo with thinly veiled contempt.  
  
Gigi meets his eyes challengingly, his hand on Riccardo’s thigh not wavering from its spot.  
  
If Zlatan thinks he can intimidate them, he is dead wrong. Gigi did not come here to be insulted; he came because he knows Andrea was shaken by the mere mention of his son, and the off chance of him finding them is something they need to avoid at all costs.  
  
Leaving his family has always been the one thing Andrea could not forgive himself for, even if he keeps saying he does not regret following Gigi that fateful night. Coming face to face with his now teenage son would mean facing the results of that decision – something neither Andrea nor Gigi are ready for, especially not now that they have added Riccardo in the mix.  
  
They are their own family now, just like Andrea said.  
  
The feast is coming to an end, women and children excusing themselves before retiring to their tents, men obviously waiting for Zlatan’s orders.  
  
“Look how the time runs,” Zlatan smirks as he glances at the sky, the almost full moon shining down at them, “You better stay the night, hm? In the morning we can discuss that carriage you mentioned, Andrea, so that you can be on your way again.”  
  
Gigi and Andrea share a suspicious look, but neither dares to say anything when they are so direly outnumbered. Zlatan would not just give them horses and a carriage, there must be something hidden in his apparent kindness.  
  
“Soldier,” Zlatan addresses Gigi suddenly as he stands up, stretching his muscles sore from sitting all evening, “You should accompany me to the woods to make sure the camp’s safe.”  
  
“I’d rather stay with Andrea and Riccardo,” Gigi counters simply, not budging from his spot between the men in question, “I don’t trust your men not to try anything while I’m gone, and I certainly don’t trust  _you_.”  
  
“My camp, my rules,” Zlatan says simply, and Gigi can see the men around them preparing their weapons threateningly, “It’s either you or that pretty pet of yours. Your choice. I’m not about to leave two outsiders in my camp without my supervision.”  
  
“Then just send your men for the rounds and stay here with us,” Andrea tells him sharply, standing up and facing Zlatan with no sign of being intimidated by the taller man, “You’ll be leaving two outsiders here in any case: I’m not one of  _your people_  anymore, Zlatan.”  
  
Suddenly the men around them are all standing up, their weapons ready and pointed at the three of them. Zlatan moves far too quickly for someone of his posture, grabbing Riccardo’s arm and hauling him up and into his hold before Gigi can reach his sword resting by his seat.  
  
Shit, he must be getting old.  
  
“I told you, it’s either him or the soldier,” Zlatan says softly, the earlier friendliness all but gone from his voice, “Your choice.”  
  
“Alright, I’m coming,” Gigi tells him quickly – Riccardo looks so terrified, close to hyperventilating, his eyes wide and bright with unmasked fear – “Just let him go.”  
  
“Thought so,” Zlatan grins and pushes Riccardo away forcefully, sending the boy stumbling against Andrea’s chest, clinging to the older man almost desperately, fighting hard to get the panic back under control.  
  
“Keep your weapons close at hand,” Gigi whispers to Andrea as he leans closer under the guise of comforting Riccardo, “I don’t know what they’re up to, but it can’t be anything good.”  
  
“We’ll be alright,” Andrea assures him, stroking Riccardo’s hair as the boy finally starts calming down, “Just take care of yourself. Don’t let him out of your sight, always keep the upper hand.”  
  
Gigi doubts he can hold the upper hand when it has been with Zlatan ever since they entered his camp, but he says nothing as he follows the gypsy chief out of the clearing, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword.  
  
“You’ve really done quite a number on Andrea,” Zlatan tells him casually as the walk through the woods, looking out for anything unusual, “I can hardly recognize him from our early days.”  
  
“Maybe you just never knew him that well, then,” Gigi replies curtly, unwilling to take the obvious bait but also unable to keep his mouth shut when it comes to Andrea, “I’ve been with him for almost a decade. I know him better than you ever could.”  
  
“Perhaps, but I can still see right through him,” Zlatan laughs dangerously, stopping to study some marks on the ground, “He’s an idiot for trusting you. You and that pet of yours, you’ll be his ultimate downfall.”  
  
“Not if I can help it,” Gigi has a bad feeling about this. He can tell Zlatan is planning something, that his words are more than just a general observation – it is a threat, and Gigi is taken by the sudden urge to turn around and return to the camp.  
  
“Why’d you ambush us in the first place? What’re your intentions?” he asks instead, keeping his voice level, his senses telling him he would not be match to Zlatan if the man decided he was a threat.  
  
“I’m just looking after my tribe,” Zlatan answers in a low voice, his eyes darting back towards the camp just as a commotion breaks out in the distance, drawing Gigi’s attention away from him, “You wouldn’t understand what it means: to protect your family.”  
  
Gigi does not hear him anymore, dashing through the thick bushes to make his way back to the camp as quickly as possible – back to his family, back to Andrea and Riccardo.  
  
The yells quiet down quickly and Gigi can hear the sound of a horse carriage pulling away. By the time he reaches the camp, Andrea and Riccardo are nowhere to be found, only a handful of Zlatan’s men greeting him with their swords pointed at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- No, I haven’t forgotten this story, it just took me a while to collect myself after all the feels about Milan, Monto’s injury, and the terrible World Cup!
> 
> \- [Duchy of Modena and Reggio](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duchy_of_Modena_and_Reggio) was a sovereign state in the 15th century Italy, under the rule of the House of Este that also ruled the neighbouring [Ferrara](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duchy_of_Ferrara).  
> \- [Ravenna](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ravenna) was a coastal province between Ferrara and Rome (under the rule of the Papal States). It was annexed to the Republic of Venice in 1440 after its previous ruler was ousted from power.  
> \- However, I have next to no information on the historical situation in these areas, and no means to actually research it for the needs of this story, so all the stuff about security and crossing borders and what not are **made up by me**. Please do not take this as historically accurate.  
>  \- _Romani_ and _Sinti_ were (and are) two separate ethnic groups, but because of the limited contacts with the general population, they were essentially the same in the eyes of the ‘outsiders’, and were therefore persecuted all the same. I’m making a huge assumption in saying there could have been interaction between the two groups. But on the other hand, why not? They were fighting a common enemy, and they had similar backgrounds. It’s not completely implausible to have chiefs of two tribes forming some kind of an alliance for the time being. Still, this should be considered historically inaccurate as well.  
>  \- I love Zlatan, and I loved writing him here, even as the bad guy – or more like the grey eminence, if you ask me, but more of that in the coming chapters!


	12. Chapter 12

_Duchy of Modena and Reggio, 1455 AD_

  
  
Andrea regains consciousness slowly, and the first thing he realizes is that there is a gag on his mouth, bound tightly around his head. His hands and legs are bound as well, keeping him from moving on the wooden surface he is lying on.  
  
Next he notices that he is in a moving carriage, tops of tall trees and the cloudless night sky flashing above him as he tries to focus his gaze. The effort makes his head ache even harder, the pain momentarily blurring his sight.  
  
Where is he? What happened? Where are Gigi and Riccardo?  
  
 _Riccardo_.  
  
Andrea’s mind sharpens instantly as the memory returns – Zlatan’s men, attacking the two of them from behind, knocking Riccardo out with a hard blow on the head. Blood everywhere: Riccardo’s blood, but also the attackers’ blood when Andrea managed to incapacitate a few of them with his throwing knives, before he too was outnumbered and rendered unconscious.  
  
He struggles to sit up, the binds on his limbs making the effort unnecessarily hard, but finally he manages to crawl into an upright position, his back against the side of the carriage.  
  
Riccardo is sitting across of him, still unconscious, his head lulling against his chest, looking extremely uncomfortable. His face is bloody, and Andrea can make out a deep cut on his forehead, right along to his hairline.  
  
“Look, the blood traitor’s awake,” one of the two men at the front of the carriage jeers over his shoulder – Andrea recognizes him as one of the men who ambushed them in the woods earlier today – “Worried about your little puppy? How sweet.”  
  
Andrea glares at the grinning man, although he is unsure whether he should be angry at these men, Zlatan, or himself for trusting his old acquaintance. He settles on all three, trying to convey his loathing through the mere eye-contact.  
  
“How far the mighty has fallen,” the other man laughs, not turning to look at Andrea, keeping his eyes on the road instead, holding the reins of the two horses pulling the carriage, “To think he could’ve been the next chief of his tribe. Now he’s a nobody, frolicking with the disgusting Italian perverts.”  
  
Andrea tries to snap at them – to tell them he is much rather a perverted blood traitor than a coward covering behind their chief’s back – but the gag muffles his voice, releasing only an unintelligible murmur.  
  
Riccardo lets out a soft whine against his gag, and Andrea’s eyes are back at him immediately. He blinks his eyes slowly, obviously trying to focus his gaze before his eyes settle on Andrea, the initial confusion soon replaced by realization and fear.  
  
Andrea wants to tell him it is going to be alright, wants to apologize for putting him in the danger’s way just because Zlatan was smart enough to play his weaknesses, wants to hug him until the terror in those light blue eyes diminishes.  
  
He wants to say so much, but he cannot, and it breaks his heart to know Riccardo is left fighting his inner demons on his own.  
  
Andrea twists his hands in attempt to loosen the binds on his wrists without alarming the men transporting them. His knives are gone, and he has only one chance to strike even if he manages to free himself – one chance to save both himself and Riccardo from whatever twisted plan they have become a part of.  
  
The binds are tight, but he manages to turn his wrists just a little. If he could twist it a bit more, he might just release himself…  
  
Andrea is actually thankful for the gag when he tugs his left hand out of the binds and terrible pain suddenly flashes in his wrist, quickly spreading through his arm. A sprained wrist is a small price to pay for their freedom, but the yell that threatened to escape his lips would have alarmed Zlatan’s men immediately.  
  
Riccardo’s sharp eyes are trained on him, obviously worried as he realizes something is not right, takes in the tears of pain gathering in Andrea’s eyes.  
  
Andrea tries to smile at him through the gag, making sure the expression reaches his watery eyes as well. He moves one of his hands just enough to show Riccardo he is free. The surprise in Riccardo’s eyes is genuine, but he does not look any happier than Andrea is feeling – this was just the easy part, after all.  
  
The carriage comes to a stop in front of a large building made of dark rocks, and the men leave the carriage with one last look to make sure they have not moved from their spots. Andrea keeps his hands behind his back, pretending he is still bound and stunned from the earlier blow in the head.  
  
The moment they are out of sight, he reaches for his feet, though, pulling on the tight knots, hissing in pain against the gag as his hurt wrist protests the movement.  
  
He just manages to release himself when the men come back. He leaves them no time to realize what is happening, springing into action: he brings the first man down with a well-aimed kick to his chest as he jumps off the carriage, taking a hold of the other’s neck, pressing his forearm against his windpipe.  
  
“Surprise,” he growls quietly as he pulls the gag off his face, ignoring the pain in his hand, “Do you want me to kill you now or would you prefer telling me what’s going on first?”  
  
His foot is pressed against the chest of the man lying on the ground, keeping him from getting up.  
  
Suddenly Riccardo lets out a muffled sound, but it is too late for Andrea to react before he can feel a blade pressed against his back.  
  
“You’re not killing anyone today, you dirty gypsy.”  
  
The voice is vaguely familiar, but Andrea cannot place it. There is a large hand on his shoulder, tugging him away from Zlatan’s men and turning him to face the person holding the sword at him.  
  
The mere sight forces air out of Andrea’s lungs, unadulterated  _hate_  filling all his senses as he stares at Cassano’s grinning face – the scar on his face makes him look even more disgusting than he remembered – “You!”  
  
“Me!” Cassano confirms gleefully, spreading his arms as if waiting for an embrace, “What, you thought you could keep running away from me forever? I’ve been patient, waiting for a chance to get back at you and Gigi ever since you slipped out of my fingers ten years ago.”  
  
“Heard you joined the inquisition? Aren’t you supposed to have something to accuse us of?” Andrea asks in a low voice, spitting in the ground next to Cassano’s polished boots, “Petty revenge – how very Christian of you.”  
  
There is a thud and a muffled whimper as Riccardo is thrown off the carriage by one of Cassano’s men, falling painfully on his side on the ground.  
  
There is surprise in Cassano’s eyes as he studies the huddled form in the ground, and he turns to address Zlatan’s men who have stood up again, “Who’s this? Where’s Buffon?”  
  
“We agreed on the blood traitor and the Italian,” one of the men, obviously higher in ranking between the two, answers gruffly, “This is who we found him with – we don’t know anything else.”  
  
Andrea is having trouble hiding his surprise, because for some reason these men are  _protecting_  Gigi from Cassano. It must be one of Zlatan’s ploys: to keep a part of his hand hidden in case he needs more bargaining chips in the future.  
  
“We were talking about the gypsy and the soldier!” Cassano is furious, his interest in Andrea momentarily forgotten as he approaches Zlatan’s henchmen threateningly, “Which part of that weakling looks like a soldier to you?”  
  
“He had a long sword?” the man’s answer comes out more as a question, but Cassano’s anger seems to diminish as he is offered Riccardo’s sword – the same one that made his scar, all those years ago, Andrea remembers with a start.  
  
“Did he now?” Cassano is grinning again as he strides over to Riccardo, ignoring Andrea’s vehement “Stay away from him!” as he crouches down in front of him and takes a hold of his hair to force his face up.  
  
Andrea is expecting to see fear, even panic, on Riccardo’s face when he looks up; what strikes him, though, is the utter horror and pure _resentment_  in his wide, always so expressive eyes.  
  
To Andrea’s surprise, Cassano laughs at the sight, “Oh, but I know you, don’t I? You’re the little sodomite whose boyfriend I burned at the stake. Didn’t get enough of the torture last time?”  
  
Suddenly it all crashes down on Andrea – it was Cassano, the one who did all this to Riccardo, who broke their beautiful companion so beyond repair – and he feels physically sick.  
  
This man killed his wife, forced Gigi into a lifelong exile, killed Riccardo’s lover, and even took pride in all of it – all out of spite, out of unjustified hate towards everything that is different from him.  
  
Riccardo is shaking his head, trying to pull his face away from Cassano’s touch, trying to avoid the sadistic leer directed in his way. He is not crying, all his defences back up all of a sudden: the instinctive need to protect himself overpowering everything he might be feeling.  
  
“Let go of him,” Andrea tells Cassano, trying to keep the worry out of his voice but failing miserably, “He doesn’t have anything to do with this. Just let him go and I’ll do anything you tell me to.”  
  
Now there is panic in Riccardo’s eyes, angry accusation directed at Andrea, and Andrea understands the message even without any words: Riccardo is not letting Andrea sacrifice himself for his sake, not after what happened to his lover.  
  
“Oh, but the boy doesn’t think so, do you?” Cassano coos amusedly, petting Riccardo’s hair, obviously enjoying the way Riccardo squirms under his touch, “He was fighting so hard for his peasant lover as well – no wonder he finds a dirty gypsy like you so enticing.”  
  
“Just stop touching him!” Andrea snaps when the shaking of Riccardo’s shoulders becomes visible even from the distance, “Can’t you see he’s terrified?”  
  
He knows pleading will never work with a psychopath like Cassano, but it is all he has left, Cassano’s guard keeping a fast hold on him to stop him from moving.  
  
He wishes Gigi comes for them soon – he must be looking for them by now – but at the same time he hopes he will stay as far away as possible, because it is Gigi that Cassano wants.  
  
“Take them straight to the torture chambers,” Cassano tells his men, letting go of Riccardo and pushing him back to the ground as if he was touching something dirty, before standing up and walking over to Zlatan’s men, probably to pay them for their services.  
  
Andrea has no chance to listen in to their conversation before he is hauled inside the stony building and through the dark corridors until they come into a room with no windows, lit with numerous torches along the walls.  
  
He is shackled to a wall, the thick metal digging into his skin, the pain in his sprained wrist almost unbearable. Riccardo is tied into a large chair, his feet still bound, but the guard pulls off his gag before leaving them alone in their shadowy cell.  
  
“Riccardo,” Andrea calls for him as soon as the door closes, desperate to make some contact with him, to make sure he is still holding up, “Riccardo, I know it’s scary for you, but we’ll pull through this together, I promise. We’ll get out of here. You’re not alone, Riccardo.”  
  
“It’ll be fine,” Riccardo whispers, his voice thin, faraway, and Andrea is not sure if he actually heard his words at all, “It’ll be fine, just keep silent, don’t let them know the truth. Don’t cry, Riccardo, I’m here with you. I promise, I’ll protect you, even if it’s the last thing I do. Don’t let them see you cry.”  
  
He is not looking up at Andrea, too immersed in his own world, in the flashbacks of his late lover, repeating the assurances from somewhere out of this reality, somewhere Andrea cannot reach him.  
  
The whispered words sound like shouts in the silent room, and they break Andrea’s heart over and over again, because they are all reminders that Riccardo has been in this situation before.  
  
The hollow shell of a boy Gigi found on the road all those weeks ago was merely a memory of the wreck he must have been during his imprisonment.  
  
“Listen to me, Riccardo!” he repeats urgently, because he needs to find the Riccardo that they managed to dig out of that shell, needs to reach the part of him that was still willing to fight for his life, for his own happiness, “This is not like the last time! You need to trust me! You need to  _come back_!”  
  
Riccardo’s head snaps up at the last words, his eyes meeting Andrea’s, and now they are clear, full of fight and courage, so strong it almost covers the underlying fear, “I don’t wanna die, Andrea. I don’t wanna die and make Giampaolo’s sacrifice mean nothing.”  
  
“You won’t,” Andrea assures him, even though he knows he cannot make such promises, “We’ll be fine. We can’t let him win.”  
  
“Oh, but I’ve already won,” comes Cassano’s amused voice from the door as he strides in, “It’s just a matter of time before Buffon comes knocking on my door, looking for you.”  
  
He walks right past Andrea and grabs a handful of Riccardo’s hair to force him look him in the eye, “I’m gonna have to wait until Gigi is here before killing his precious little gypsy. But we can find other ways to have fun until then, can’t we,  _Baron Montolivo_?”  
  
The title sounds like an insult from Cassano’s lips, but Andrea has no time to ponder on the implications of that, too busy struggling against the shackles, yelling threats in Cassano’s way until one of the guards gags him again.  
  
“Undress him,” Cassano tells his men, gesturing towards Riccardo nonchalantly, “I wanna see those pretty scars on his back. I left Caravaggio too soon to witness them myself.”  
  
Andrea is left helpless as two guards pull Riccardo up from the chair and start stripping him, revealing the pale skin and the deep scars, but also the kiss and bite marks Andrea and Gigi have left on him during their nights of passion.  
  
Cassano barks out a laugh when he sees the dark, slowly healing marks on Riccardo’s skin, glancing at Andrea triumphantly, “And you said we didn’t have anything to accuse you of? I could easily hand you over to the secular authorities and get you executed just for this.”  
  
Riccardo does not say a word, not even when he is fully naked, forced down on his knees on the stony floor. His eyes meet Andrea’s, and it is the silent fear hiding just behind that emotionless façade that really gets to him.  
  
If Andrea had any doubts left before this, they are all gone at that instant. Riccardo is  _his_  – his to protect, his to hold, his to love. His and Gigi’s.  
  
Cassano walks over to Riccardo, stepping between him and Andrea, breaking their eye-contact on purpose as he takes a hold of Riccardo’s chin, lifting his face up, studying his expression.  
  
“You sodomites never learn, do you?” Cassano asks in a low voice, just loud enough to reach Andrea’s ears, “Should’ve chosen better, though. These two, they’re not gonna sacrifice themselves for you. There’s no one to protect you here: no dying boyfriend, no kind magistrate’s wife, no one. You’re all alone.”  
  
Riccardo responds by spitting at Cassano’s face, earning an outraged shout and a blow in the face. Riccardo’s nose is bleeding when Cassano moves out of the way and Andrea can see him again.  
  
Cassano walks over to a table filled with different types of knives and whips, and other metallic and wooden devices – Andrea would rather not find out what kind of use they are meant for.  
  
“Now let’s see how long it takes to make you scream,” Cassano smirks as he picks up a whip, “What do you think, will it make your gypsy friend hard, to see you writhing in pain?”  
  
“You’re sick,” Riccardo whispers, only a slight tremble in his voice as he meets Cassano’s eyes, “I’ll never give you the pleasure of breaking me. Not this time.”  
  
It takes four whip lashes before Riccardo cries out, the scars on his back opening one by one under the onslaught, blood gushing down his back, and Andrea cannot do anything to help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Cassano is back! Yay? *ducks flying objects*  
> \- While Inquisition was technically under the jurisdiction of the Catholic Church (and thus the Pope), in practice the individual inquisitors had no one to supervise their actions, which is why it is actually possible that some of them abused the power they’d been given. This explains also how they managed to get around the “torture is allowed only once” rule on a regular basis.  
> \- Of course, that doesn’t mean there were any sadistic bastards like Cassano among their ranks – he doesn’t care about the heavenly mission or saving the souls of the unfortunate sinners, he’s doing all this for revenge.  
> \- That said, Riccardo would be in big trouble if he was handed to the secular authorities, because he is already a convicted sodomite. Sucks for him, huh?


	13. Chapter 13

_Duchy of Modena and Reggio, 1455 AD_  
  
  
Gigi is bound to a tree in Zlatan’s camp, hopelessly stuck, silently observing the gypsy chief as he converses with his men in a language foreign to Gigi.  
  
It is not the same language Andrea’s people speak, Gigi is quite sure of it, but he still recognizes a few words – words picked up during his time with Andrea’s tribe, and then the whole decade after that spent together with Andrea.  
  
He also picks up the name of Cassano, and it makes Gigi’s blood boil. He had known Cassano was an obsessive cunt, had guessed he would not stop his pursue of Gigi and Andrea, but he had kept moving in the hopes that their paths would never cross again.  
  
Gigi wants to ask Zlatan why he is still held captive here, when obviously Cassano had paid them to take Gigi to him, not Riccardo. The gag on his mouth stops him from speaking, though, and maybe it is for the best.  
  
The first rays of morning light are sneaking past the horizon when the carriage comes back, with two – no, three – men sitting in the front, Andrea and Riccardo nowhere to be found.  
  
Gigi might not let anything out to his capturers, but internally he is sick with worry, all the possible things Cassano might have done with Andrea going through his head at once. Cassano’s hate for Andrea can only be rivalled by his hate for Gigi – Andrea is the thief that made Gigi turn against Cassano, after all.  
  
Gigi doubts Cassano would kill Andrea right away, though – he enjoys seeing others in pain too much, so he is probably waiting to kill Andrea right in front of Gigi.  
  
But how can he know for sure? He never really recognized Cassano for what he was when they were in the army together, refused to look too closely, maybe because he could tell he would not like what he saw.  
  
And what about Riccardo – Gigi’s mind supplies with sudden emergency – would Cassano have any qualms with killing a boy he does not even know? Would he think Riccardo is just in the way and opt to get rid of him?  
  
Gigi’s worried mind just barely notes that Zlatan is hugging one of the men tightly – an unfamiliar one, just a kid really, even younger than Riccardo – before releasing him and urging him to join an elderly couple that might be the boy’s parents.  
  
Then Zlatan turns to walk towards Gigi, taking a knife off his belt.  
  
Gigi’s blood runs cold. Is Zlatan going to kill him now that he has made sure Andrea and Riccardo are out of the picture? Or is he going to take him to Cassano as well, maybe to collect another reward?  
  
Zlatan does not say a word, just lifts his knife and – much to Gigi’s surprise – cuts the ropes holding him.  
  
Gigi does not waste time when his hands are free, flinging a fist towards Zlatan’s face, but the man is too fast: he takes a hold of Gigi’s arm and twists it behind his back, pulling Gigi’s back flush against his body.  
  
“Is this how you pay for my kindness,  _soldier_?” Zlatan practically spits out the last word, “By attacking me after I saved your sorry life?”  
  
“We’ve got very different definitions of kindness, Zlatan,” Gigi hisses back, his voice low and cold, full of loathing, “You call selling my loved ones to a homicidal maniac ‘saving my life’? You must be joking.”  
  
Zlatan lets go of Gigi’s arm, pushing him just a few paces away from him, “You’re still here, aren’t you? Who would’ve saved you if I’d decided to hand all three of you over to that piece of shit?”  
  
Gigi’s anger is suddenly mixed with confusion, even understanding, because Zlatan is right. It would have been all over had Cassano caught Gigi together with his companions. Now there is still a chance that Cassano is biding his time, waiting for Gigi to come and witness his cruelty.  
  
“Unlike you, soldier, I’m no murderer,” Zlatan continues calmly as Gigi tries to piece together the new information he is receiving, “He had one of my boys. This was the only way to get him back without risking his life. But now he’s got nothing on me. Now I can do whatever I want.”  
  
There is still a chance that Andrea and Riccardo are alive. There is still a chance Gigi can save them.  
  
“Let’s go save your family, soldier,” Zlatan tells him firmly, almost mad hatred flashing in his eyes – hatred for Cassano – and he is holding Gigi’s sword now, brought to him by one of his men, handing it towards Gigi with no sign of fear, “It’s time to show me you’re more than just pretty words.”  
  
Gigi accepts the weapon with a silent nod. He might still hate Zlatan for what he did, but Zlatan is also the only one that can help him find Andrea and Riccardo before Cassano grows tired of waiting.  
  
  
  
Riccardo is crying, silent tears falling down his bloody cheeks, the earlier determination all but gone from his beautiful eyes, leaving them distant, empty.  
  
Andrea does not know how long it has been since Cassano started his torture. His arms have gone numb from hanging on the shackles, all he can feel is the pain in his wrist. He is fairly sure he has dislocated it, the swelling getting worse by the minute.  
  
Riccardo had apparently passed out after the flogging, the pain and blood loss obviously too much for him, and Andrea had been almost relieved when the screams came to a stop. Just for a second he had thought Cassano would leave Riccardo alone for a while and focus his attention on Andrea instead.  
  
Then Cassano’s men had hauled Riccardo on the empty table and tied his hands and feet to spread him out for more exploitation. Andrea had wanted to yell at them, to tell them putting Riccardo on his back would cause him excruciating pain, but all he could manage was an angry mumble against the gag.  
  
Then Cassano had woken Riccardo up by rubbing white powder under his nose, and the distressed sound that escaped Riccardo’s lips the moment he regained consciousness had broken Andrea’s heart all over again.  
  
Riccardo stopped screaming after a while: his voice running hoarse as Cassano carried out his torture, nothing more than miserable croaks escaping his lips. All that is left now are the soft pleads for Cassano to stop, for Andrea to help him, for someone – anyone – to just make it stop.  
  
To Andrea, it is worse than the screams, because he knows Riccardo is still relying on him, waiting for him to do something.  
  
There are small burn marks spreading down Riccardo’s chest, right over the places where the love bites used to be. One of them right by Riccardo’s groin – Andrea remembers kissing him there just a night before, teasing Riccardo into full hardness deliberately slowly before taking him into his mouth.  
  
Andrea can still hear Riccardo crying out, this time not from pleasure but from pain, when the burning hot iron pressed into that very same spot. It had made Andrea feel so guilty, as if it was him holding the rod instead of Cassano.  
  
Cassano is by the fireplace again, heating another tool – a branding iron, Andrea realizes with a start – while the guards stand by the sidelines, keeping their eyes carefully averted from Riccardo.  
  
Cowards, too afraid to see the horrors they are a part of, but also too scared to do anything to stop Cassano from hurting Riccardo.  
  
Andrea holds Riccardo’s gaze, hoping he could somehow create a connection with him, take away some of his pain. He feels useless, tears stinging his own eyes as well, but he cannot let Riccardo see them.  
  
He needs to stay strong, for both of them.  
  
Riccardo parts his lips, mouthing the same words to him even though no sound comes out.  
  
 _It’s okay. It’s okay, Andrea. It’s okay._  
  
It is not okay. It is not fucking okay when Cassano is hurting Riccardo because of something Gigi and Andrea did. It is not okay that Riccardo is still the one comforting Andrea when it should be the other way around. It is not okay!  
  
There is a crash outside, followed by alarmed yells of the guards, and the men still in the room take the excuse immediately, rushing out into the hallway without another glance at Cassano or the prisoners.  
  
Cassano, however, merely laughs at the mayhem breaking out in his fort, insane glee lighting up his whole face, the branding iron immediately forgotten, “So he’s finally here!”  
  
Gigi, Andrea realizes, Gigi is coming for them, and Cassano knows it – has been waiting for it.  
  
“Think he can make it here without getting caught?” Cassano coos next to Riccardo’s ear, petting his hair in a mockery of affection, his eyes flickering towards Andrea momentarily before he continues, “You think he’s gonna help you, Baron Montolivo? You really think he’s gonna spare you another glance when he rushes in to save his precious gypsy?”  
  
Andrea does not like the flicker of doubt flashing in the blue eyes, but it is gone almost immediately, and Andrea can do nothing but hope he imagined it.  
  
  
  
It takes Gigi ages to find the place Cassano is holding Andrea.  
  
It is only him and Zlatan against a few dozen guards – Zlatan had refused to put any of his people in danger because of ‘some outsiders’ – but fortunately Cassano had put quantity over quality, and they make their way through the ranks pretty quickly.  
  
Of course, the smoke bombs Zlatan had brought with him – got them in a trade from some old chemist, he had told Gigi – helped them as well, the toxic smoke impairing the unsuspecting opponents’ sight as well as their lungs.  
  
“Here’s the keys – go find your boys!” Zlatan bellows at Gigi, the scarf over his mouth and nose muffling the sound a little, as he throws him the key ring he just picked from a guard he had knocked unconscious.  
  
“I still haven’t forgiven you!” Gigi reminds him as he kicks another guard on the chest before catching the keys from midair.  
  
He can hear Zlatan’s booming laughter even as he makes his way through the corridors, pulling his own scarf off his face as the smoke around him diminishes, opening doors on the way, trying to figure out where on earth Cassano could be hiding his prisoners.  
  
There is no one in the dungeons, and by the looks of it, they have not been used in a while.  
  
Another three guards rush at him as he exits the prisons, but Gigi blocks their assaults easily – these guys would not even be match for Riccardo, he thinks bitterly.  
  
He heads to the way the men came from, and then finally,  _finally_ , he finds a door that is slightly ajar, the light of flickering flames shining into the dark hallways.  
  
The first thing he sees is Andrea, shackled against the wall, his eyes wide and panicked as he turns his head to look at Gigi at the doorway.  
  
There is also blood, a lot of it, both on the floor and the table in the middle of the room.  
  
 _Riccardo’s blood, it must be._  Gigi’s mind goes almost blank with fear. Andrea does not appear hurt, so the blood cannot be his, and Riccardo is not there, and neither is Cassano. What has he done with their little foundling?  
  
“Dear God, what’s he done to you?” Gigi whispers as he rushes to Andrea’s side, going through the keys until he finds one small enough to fit the shackles, moving swiftly to release him, “Where’s Riccardo?”  
  
Andrea is shaking his head frantically, making distressed sounds that are muffled by the gag, but Gigi is too busy trying to open the handcuffs to realize that he is trying to warn him before it is too late.  
  
“You’ve grown careless, old friend.”  
  
Gigi startles out of his task just as he manages to open the first shackle. He slowly turns around to face Cassano, who is holding Riccardo in front of himself like a shield, a dagger pressed against his throat.  
  
Riccardo looks horrible: fully naked, bloodied from head to toe, his skin littered with open wounds, and his eyes are back to that empty, hopeless state Gigi first encountered on the road all those weeks ago.  
  
“Let go of him,” Gigi tells Cassano in a low voice, fighting to keep the fear out of his voice, “Let him go or I swear I’m gonna kill you.”  
  
The threat is empty, and Cassano obviously knows it – he knows Gigi would not dare to attack him as long as it might put Riccardo in a bigger danger than he is already in.  
  
It is not even necessarily because he loves Riccardo – although he does, dear God, he does – it is because of the same simple reason that made him attack Cassano all those years ago.  
  
Gigi simply  _cares_ , a weakness a soldier just cannot possess.  
  
“Oh, but you know how this works, don’t you, Gigi?” Cassano laughs, nudging Riccardo to make him move, walking just a few steps closer to Gigi and Andrea, kicking the door closed behind him, “One wrong move and the boy’s dead. Would be such a pity, I’ve had so much fun with him.”  
  
Cassano had obviously waited for Gigi to find the right room, hiding in the corridors with Riccardo until he walked in, all because he wanted to get them cornered in the same room. This is personal, and Cassano has no intention of sharing it with any of his men.  
  
“He’s the one that killed Riccardo’s lover,” Andrea whispers to him, having pulled off the gag now that one of his hands is free.  
  
A fresh bout of rage rushes through Gigi’s veins, but he still cannot make a move, not without risking Riccardo’s life.  
  
Gigi needs to think. There must be a way, some way to distract Cassano just long enough to strike him, to make him release his hold on Riccardo. Cassano is blinded by his own thirst for revenge, his own madness – there is no way he is going to win this, not this time and not ever.  
  
“You must be proud of yourself, Antonio,” Gigi tells Cassano, using his first name on purpose, to show him he is not Gigi’s superior anymore, “Kidnapping an innocent child to force Zlatan do your bidding, and then torturing another one just for the kicks. You’re exactly in the place you always dreamed of, aren’t you.”  
  
Talk, make him think you are out of ideas, make him gloat on all the damage he has done.  
  
Gigi takes half a step closer to Andrea, holding the key ring behind his back, and he can feel Andrea taking it from his fingers almost immediately, like he is reading Gigi’s mind. They are a team, forged into one by their years together.  
  
Now they need to find a way to save the other part of their family – Riccardo may have been with them only for a short time, but he is the missing part they have been searching for all along, something that just makes them feel  _right_ , like they are finally done looking.  
  
“You think you can get away with killing him?” Gigi asks Cassano softly, walking towards him now that Andrea has the keys, trying to buy him enough time to release himself, “The inquisition isn’t above the law, Antonio. They’re bound to find out, and they’re gonna ask why you killed the boy who’s already suffered his punishment.”  
  
“See, Baron Montolivo, he’s only talking about  _your_  death,” Cassano is now murmuring into Riccardo’s ear, just loud enough that Gigi hears him as well, “He doesn’t care about you. He’s not about to sacrifice himself or his gypsy bitch just to save your sorry ass. You were nothing but a plaything for them.”  
  
He is riling Riccardo up, striking right into his weaknesses, feeding the fears of abandonment that Riccardo has been fighting since he first noticed his attraction to Gigi and Andrea.  
  
“Our deaths would be justified,” Gigi replies, shrugging his shoulders in a feigned nonchalance, “At least in the twisted minds of the lawmakers. But it’s Riccardo whose death is gonna make you a murderer.”  
  
“It’s okay,” to Gigi’s surprise it is Riccardo who speaks instead of Cassano, his eyes downcast and voice almost impossibly thin, “Gigi doesn’t need to save me. I don’t mind.”  
  
Cassano lets out a bark of laughter, his eyes studying Riccardo who is refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, his chin held down firmly.  
  
“Even the kid knows you’re a flaming hypocrite,” Cassano turns his attention back towards Gigi, “All that old talk about taking care of people, of being fair and just, but in the end you—”  
  
His tirade is cut off by a surprised shout when Riccardo takes his chance to sink his teeth deep into Cassano’s hand. The dagger falls to the floor with a loud clatter, and Cassano throws Riccardo against the closest wall on instinct, forcing him to release his hand.  
  
It all happens in one flashing moment, but it is just the distraction Gigi was waiting for.  
  
He draws his sword in one swift move, closing the distance between them with two long strides, forcing Cassano to pull out his own sword and turn his attention away from Riccardo.  
  
Even as Gigi keeps fighting Cassano, he can see Andrea rushing over to Riccardo from the corner of his eye.  
  
Riccardo has dropped down to the floor, and Andrea collects him into his arms from there, rocking him comfortingly as Riccardo’s shoulders shake with silent sobs.  
  
The fight is decided before it even properly starts, because while Gigi has been depending on his sword all these years, Cassano has been getting fat and rusty, more interested in his ridiculous torture devices than conventional skills like swordfight.  
  
“Gimme one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you,” Gigi tells Cassano in a menacing growl once he has him backed into a corner, Cassano’s sword lying on the floor, “Tell me why I should show mercy when you never showed any to Riccardo when you ruined his life.”  
  
Cassano spits in Gigi’s face, baring his teeth, his eyes filled with pure contempt.  
  
“If you say so,” Gigi says lightly, not even bothering to wipe the spit off his cheek before pressing the blade against Cassano’s throat. It is probably the first time he feels no remorse or mercy towards his opponent – Cassano deserves to die for what he has done to Gigi, to Andrea, to Riccardo.  
  
“No,” the word is barely a whisper, but it stops Gigi in his tracks, stunned, because that whisper is so full of desperation, of worry and fear.  
  
He can hear shaky steps against the floor as Riccardo moves closer, and then there are arms around his waist and a face pressed against his back, Riccardo’s quiet voice in his ears, “Don’t, Gigi. You’re not a killer. Don’t let him make you one.”  
  
And just like that, the murderous intent is gone, because Riccardo is right. He makes them right.  
  
Cassano sees his chance as Gigi’s hold on his sword falters just slightly, but he can do nothing more than wrap his fingers around Gigi’s wrist, before Gigi uses his other hand to knock him unconscious with one swift blow to the back of his head.  
  
“You know we’re gonna have to keep running?” Gigi asks Riccardo as he turns around, coming face to face with him, meeting Andrea’s eyes momentarily over his shoulder as if to ask whether this is the right thing to do. Andrea offers him a crooked smile in return.  
  
“I know,” Riccardo mouths, but his voice is hoarse now, practically inaudible. Gigi knows what he is saying nonetheless.  
  
“I’m sorry for making you wait,” he tells Riccardo softly, pulling off his own cloak and wrapping it around Riccardo’s shoulders to cover his naked body, “C’mon, let’s go home.”  
  
And when they walk through the now quiet corridors – with Andrea by his side and Riccardo in his arms after his legs refused to carry him any longer – Gigi really feels like they are going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Both smelling salts and smoke bombs of sorts were known in the mediaeval times (and before), though Zlatan and Cassano probably had to call in some favours to get these substances. They’re both influential enough to pull it off, that’s for sure.  
> \- Human branding was used as a punishment in some areas during these times, especially with slaves, but as far as Cassano is concerned, he is simply a cruel little shithead who gets off from causing pain to others. Most of his torture methods were not used by the inquisition, and he obviously wasn’t aiming to make Riccardo talk, either.  
> \- Only one more chapter and the epilogue left! I’ll try to finish them by the end of this week, so look forward to that.


	14. Chapter 14

_Duchy of Modena and Reggio, 1455 AD_  
  
  
“Bite this,” Andrea instructs quietly, gently pressing a thick piece of cloth against Riccardo’s mouth, “I’ll try to be careful but it’s still gonna hurt.”  
  
Riccardo accepts the makeshift gag, biting on the fabric obediently as Andrea dips a washcloth into a bowl of cool water and starts cleaning the wounds on his back. He is thankful for it immediately, because every touch on the cuts  _hurts_ , and he knows he would be biting hard on his lip or even his tongue to stay silent were it not for the cloth in his mouth.  
  
They are inside the worn-out wagon Zlatan and Gigi had used to pick them up, the dark fabric of the roof blocking out most of the daylight, only a few rays of sunlight sneaking past the doorway.  
  
Zlatan had left them as soon as they were far enough from Cassano’s lair to feel reasonably safe, taking one of the two horses pulling the wagon – one should be enough to pull the small carriage and the three of them, he had told Andrea.  
  
Gigi had told them Zlatan’s tribe had abandoned their camp, heading south to avoid getting involved with Cassano any more than they already had.  
  
Riccardo is still not sure whether Zlatan is the good or the bad guy, but maybe it makes no difference. It is not Riccardo’s place to pass judgement.  
  
There are tears gathering in Riccardo’s eyes as Andrea keeps working on his back, but they are only partly from the pain.  
  
There are also the vivid memories of the torture, of the fear, and most importantly of the helpless look in Andrea’s eyes when he was forced to watch Riccardo’s suffering. That had been the worst part, much more excruciating than any physical injury Cassano could inflict on Riccardo.  
  
But above all there is relief, because he is still here. They are still here, the three of them together. Gigi and Andrea did not leave him behind. It had all meant something.  
  
Riccardo had been so afraid, if only for a second, when Cassano had told him Gigi would never risk his life for him. Just for a moment, when he saw Gigi trying to release Andrea from the shackles, he had actually considered the possibility – what if they would run and leave Riccardo behind?  
  
But then he had seen the genuine concern in both their eyes, and he had known it would be alright, somehow: Andrea and Gigi had pulled him back to life after he lost Giampaolo, and if he could not put his faith in them, then he genuinely did not have anything left to live for.  
  
Andrea does not say a word as he washes the dried blood off his back, cleaning the newly opened scars carefully, one cut at a time.  
  
Riccardo forces himself to breathe through his nose when he realizes he is holding his breath out of instinct, trying to stay calm, trying to keep his mind off the terrible flashes of pain shooting through his back.  
  
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Andrea is done, finishing his work with herbal ointment he prepared earlier, rubbing it over the wounds, before rounding around Riccardo until they are facing each other again.  
  
Riccardo is surprised to see fresh tear tracks on Andrea’s face – there is deep sadness in his eyes, regret, even remorse. Every emotion that should not be there, because Andrea is the strongest person Riccardo has ever met.  
  
Andrea was the one who brought him back when he was ready to give up in the torture chamber. It is not right that he is suffering so much, not now, not when they are all safe.  
  
“It wasn’t your fault,” Riccardo whispers, the cloth from his mouth falling into his lap.  
  
A fresh tear falls down Andrea’s cheek, and Riccardo reaches out to wipe it away gently.  
  
Riccardo remembers how hard it was for Giampaolo to see him in pain – too hard, so hard he could not take it in the end – and he also remembers how much it had hurt when he realized Giampaolo had given his life to save his.  
  
He remembers blaming himself, over and over again, until it was the only truth he knew.  
  
But now he looks at Andrea, who is crying for him, crying because he thinks it was his fault that Riccardo had to suffer at Cassano’s hands again, crying because he believes he should have done something more to stop it.  
  
Riccardo looks at Andrea, and he knows it is all wrong. Because the one at fault was Cassano, always Cassano, every single time they had to suffer.  
  
“It wasn’t your fault,” he repeats, more resolutely this time, grasping Andrea’s face between his hands and leaning in to press their lips together in reassurance, “You saved me back there, Andrea. You couldn’t have done anything more.”  
  
Instead of answering in words, Andrea takes a hold of Riccardo’s shoulder with one hand and pulls him into another kiss – his other hand is wrapped in a makeshift cast, just enough to keep him from moving his injured wrist.  
  
Andrea never complained, even though the swelling in his wrist had looked extremely painful. He just quickly took care of his own injury before turning all his attention to Riccardo’s wounds.  
  
“I don’t regret it,” Riccardo breathes out against Andrea’s lips when they finally break the kiss, “I don’t regret following you. I could never regret it.”  
  
“I was so scared,” Andrea admits quietly, threading the fingers of his healthy hand into Riccardo’s matted hair, dirty and bloody, rubbing his scalp gently, “I thought he was gonna kill you, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it. I’ve never been so afraid in my life. Never.”  
  
Riccardo leans into the touch as Andrea combs his fingers through his hair – he is still in pain, there is no point in his body that is not hurting, but Andrea’s touch makes it easier to bear, more distant, like an afterthought.  
  
“But you don’t regret it, taking me with you?” Riccardo does not know if it is more of an honest question or a plea –  _please, Andrea, please tell me you don’t regret it, I don’t wanna be alone anymore._  
  
“How could I regret it?” Andrea whispers, pressing his forehead against Riccardo’s gently, “I love you, Riccardo.  _We_  love you.”  
  
“You know, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put words into my mouth,” Gigi’s voice startles them both, and they turn to look at him as he climbs into the wagon, holding a small bundle of herbs Andrea had asked him to get, “Sorry, it was all I could find around here.”  
  
“It’s okay. That should be enough to treat the burns for a couple of days,” Andrea answers with a small smile, untangling his fingers from Riccardo’s hair and accepting the offered plants from Gigi, moving away from Riccardo to mix another salve.  
  
“Just for the record,” Gigi mutters into Riccardo’s ear, dropping a lazy kiss to his temple, “I love you too. Just wanted to be the one to say it.”  
  
 _Love._  Is it really that easy? How can it be that simple, just a few words?  
  
“Don’t say anything,” Gigi tells him, running his hand down Riccardo’s bare thigh – Gigi’s cloak wrapped around Riccardo’s waist is not hiding much at all – “Don’t say it before you’re certain of it. There’s no hurry.”  
  
It is enough for now, just letting himself be loved. Because even if Andrea and Gigi cannot take away the bad things from Riccardo’s past, they will do everything in their power to make his life better in the present.  
  
Andrea returns to their side, balancing a small bowl against his chest with his injured hand. Riccardo wants to scold him for being too careless with his own health, but holds his tongue as Andrea sits down and puts the bowl on the floor.  
  
Andrea brushes his fingers against Gigi’s that are still resting on Riccardo’s thigh – a silent gesture of affection – before turning towards Riccardo.  
  
“I’m sorry, it’s gonna hurt again,” he warns as he dips his fingers into the fresh ointment and then reaches for Riccardo’s chest, gently tending the small burns littered across his skin.  
  
They had discovered the burn marks were not actually that painful when Andrea washed the skin earlier: it is the skin around the severely burnt areas that stings when touched.  
  
The healing process will still take weeks, even months, Andrea had said, and Riccardo will now have permanent scars on his chest in addition to the ones on his back.  
  
Gigi pulls Riccardo’s head against his shoulder, petting his hair comfortingly when Riccardo hisses in pain as Andrea’s fingers brush over a particularly sensitive spot on his side.  
  
“I should’ve killed him,” Gigi mutters into Riccardo’s ear, his warm breath brushing against Riccardo’s cheek, “He knows our weaknesses now. What if he comes after you again?”  
  
Riccardo cannot answer, although the same thought has crossed his mind.  
  
It had been his choice to let Cassano live, and it had been a selfish decision despite the noble words he may have uttered at the time.  
  
They have seen so much death, all three of them, and seeing Gigi so ready to take another man’s life had scared Riccardo. His caring, protective, inherently good Gigi, prepared to go against his very nature just to protect Riccardo.  
  
Instead of answering, Riccardo closes his eyes and whimpers in discomfort when Andrea pushes the cloak away from his waist and runs his fingers over the burn on his upper thigh, right by his groin. Riccardo does not dare to look down at the mark, afraid of what he might see.  
  
Gigi kisses his hair, not caring about the dirt in the tangled locks, whispering calming words into his ear. It helps Riccardo relax, and finally he opens his eyes and looks at Andrea, who is not moving, his fingertips resting on the burnt skin – Riccardo can barely feel it now, the charred centre of the burn mark numb to the touch.  
  
“It’s okay, it doesn’t even hurt,” Riccardo tells Andrea quietly, reaching out to caress his cheek gently, “I’ll be fine, Andrea. I’m with you.”  
  
Andrea snaps out of his thoughts, looking up at Riccardo’s eyes with a wistful smile, “Sorry. It’ll take a while to get used to it. You being the strong one.”  
  
“I’m not,” Riccardo protests quietly, because it is the truth, he has always lived on someone else’s strength – first it was Giampaolo’s, now it is Andrea’s and Gigi’s – “I’d be lost on my own.”  
  
“Wouldn’t we all?” Andrea asks softly, exchanging a look of understanding with Gigi, “It’s easier when we can share the burden with someone else: when we have someone to be strong for, but also someone who can be strong for us in return.”  
  
Andrea picks up clean dressings from his bag and starts wrapping them around Riccardo’s upper body with some help from Gigi, covering the newly opened scars and burn marks carefully.  
  
Andrea’s words may have been spoken casually, but for Riccardo they hit far too close to home. To him, Andrea and Gigi have been the sole reason to keep going forward, someone to rely on. This is the first time he realizes it might not be a one-way street.  
  
Riccardo is not just a third wheel anymore, a mere foundling Andrea and Gigi felt obliged to take care of. He is someone they believe they can trust, someone who can be strong for them.  
  
He actually  _belongs_.  
  
Riccardo does not realize he is crying before Gigi brushes his fingers against his cheek, wiping away the silent tears.  
  
“I— I want you to take me,” Riccardo whispers when Andrea is finished with the bandages.  
  
He is practically pleading, knowing it is a horrible time to ask for something like this, but also aware he might not have the courage to do it again if he does not say it now, “Please, Andrea. I need it to be you. I need it to be real.”  
  
It is the one thing they have not done yet – a sacred place, a precious memory that Riccardo always reserved just for Giampaolo – but now it feels important, necessary, something to keep him grounded, to feel connected.  
  
Andrea is quiet, stuck in place, a helpless look in his eyes as he looks at Riccardo, then Gigi, and then Riccardo again, “You should rest – your wounds need time to heal.”  
  
“It’ll be fine. I’ll stay still, and I know you’ll be gentle,” Riccardo assures him, glancing at Gigi who smiles at him encouragingly, no sign of jealousy or doubt in his expression.  
  
Gigi understands – with Gigi the connection is there, the invisible line crossed right when he first kissed Riccardo, and then again when Riccardo stopped him from killing Cassano. With Gigi there were never any boundaries, not after Riccardo first let him in.  
  
With Andrea it is different, because Andrea always knows when to stop, when to give Riccardo his space. With Andrea it needs to be Riccardo’s choice, it must be Riccardo who closes the gap, invites him in.  
  
“I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
With Andrea, it is not only Riccardo who needs this.  
  
“You won’t. I trust you.”  
  
Andrea caresses his face softly, wiping away the last remains of tears on the bruised skin. He turns to Gigi, like silently asking for advice. Gigi replies by pulling him into a long, open-mouthed kiss – Riccardo can just barely see their tongues caressing each other between their lips.  
  
“Go on,” Gigi tells Andrea when he finally pulls back from the kiss, “I’ll be right here. It’ll be all three of us, as it should be.”  
  
There is new-found confidence on Andrea’s face when he turns to look at Riccardo, who answers it with a hesitant smile just before Andrea slips his hand to the back of Riccardo’s neck and catches his lips in a gentle kiss.  
  
He slowly runs his tongue over Riccardo’s bottom lip, before sneaking past the parted lips, deepening the kiss, but there is still no hurry, like he wants to cherish every moment of this.  
  
Gigi is rubbing Riccardo’s thigh again, deliberately dipping his fingers between his legs, while his other hand caresses Riccardo’s butt, removing the cloak from his waist completely, exposing him to Andrea’s searching touches.  
  
Andrea does not break the kiss even as he drops his hand down to Riccardo’s hip, careful not to touch the covered wounds, making sure he is not hurting Riccardo. His casted hand is resting on Riccardo’s knee, unmoving but still very much there, another anchor tying them together.  
  
Riccardo’s body is slow to respond to the touches, the ache all over his body not letting up easily. But the pain begins to seem more insignificant as the arousal slowly takes a hold of him, his cock growing hard when Gigi’s hand finally settles between his legs.  
  
Riccardo gasps against Andrea’s lips when Gigi starts stroking his length, urging him into full hardness with a few firm jerks. Andrea’s hand is rubbing Riccardo’s ass, reminding him of what is yet to come.  
  
“Maybe you should turn around, on your knees,” Andrea instructs as he reluctantly breaks the kiss, allowing Riccardo to moan out loud as Gigi keeps stroking his cock, “I don’t wanna risk putting any pressure on your back, it might make the scars worse.”  
  
Riccardo has to fight to keep his eyes from falling shut, bucking his groin into the calloused hand, and it takes a while for Andrea’s words to register in his brain.  
  
“I don’t think he’s quite able to move just yet,” Gigi notes with a chuckle, his jerks on Riccardo’s cock unfaltering. Riccardo agrees with the notion by dropping his head against Gigi’s shoulder and moaning against the rough fabric of his shirt.  
  
“And whose fault is that?” Andrea lets out a half-exasperated, half-amused huff, and Gigi pulls his hand away reluctantly, earning a displeased whine from Riccardo.  
  
“Stop looking at me like that,” Andrea says with a roll of his eyes when Riccardo settles his accusing gaze on him, “This is what you asked for. I’m only trying to make sure you’ll be comfortable. Now turn around.”  
  
Riccardo chuckles breathlessly at his tone and leans in to drop a quick kiss on Andrea’s lips before following the instructions without further complaint.  
  
Gigi moves to sit in front of him as Riccardo settles down on all fours. He takes a hold of Riccardo’s hands and guides him to rest his head on his lap, his cheek pressed on the trouser-clad thigh.  
  
The position feels almost comfortable like that, Gigi’s warmth reassuring, safe, even though Riccardo cannot see what is happening behind him.  
  
He feels Andrea’s hands on his buttocks, rubbing them slowly, letting him grow used to the feeling before spreading the cheeks, caressing his entrance almost hesitantly.  
  
Riccardo tenses up at the touch immediately – it has been ages, a whole lifetime, since Giampaolo touched him there, and somehow this feels completely different: new, scary, overwhelming.  
  
For a second Riccardo considers telling Andrea to stop, because he is not ready, he will never be ready to give up that memory. But then Gigi pets his hair and leans down to drop a kiss on his shoulder, asking him if it is really alright.  
  
 _”It’s all up to you. It’s always been up to you.”_  
  
“I’m fine,” Riccardo grits out, trying to hide the tears that are threatening to fall from his eyes again, “Please, Andrea, I need it.”  
  
He is not crying because of Giampaolo, not really – he understands it now, he understands Giampaolo wanted him to live on, wanted him to find someone else who could make his life worth living.  
  
He is crying because he can finally feel it: Andrea and Gigi here with him, touching him, and it does not take away what Giampaolo meant to him. He is crying because he feels something akin to happiness for the first time since he lost Giampaolo.  
  
 _”Nothing will take that memory away. I promise you.”_  
  
Andrea is rubbing some kind of oil against his entrance, his fingers sliding smoothly against the sensitive flesh, not pushing in yet, waiting for Riccardo to relax.  
  
“It’s usually Gigi who does this,” Andrea admits quietly, and Riccardo can feel a brush of his lips against the small of his back, just below the bandages, “You need to tell me if I’m hurting you, okay? Can you do that for me, Riccardo?”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Riccardo assures him again, squeezing Gigi’s hand for a reassurance of his own, “I won’t let you hurt me. You could never hurt me.”  
  
The first finger hurts, the feeling of intrusion too sudden even though Riccardo was expecting it. He gasps sharply, hiding his face into Gigi’s lap, pressing his eyes shut as he waits for the pain to subside.  
  
Andrea is waiting too, keeping his hand almost impossibly still, while Gigi reaches out to stroke Riccardo’s cock, trying to pull his mind off the intrusion.  
  
But Riccardo  _wants_  to feel it, wants to remember every single thing that Andrea and Gigi do to him, because this moment is all they have – they cannot change the past, and they cannot tell what will happen in the future, but the present is irrevocably here, and that is what is important.  
  
Riccardo takes a deep breath, willing his body to relax, and slowly the pressure inside him subsides, his loosening muscles allowing Andrea to push his finger in all the way.  
  
This is familiar. It may be just a distant memory, but Riccardo’s body still remembers how to react as Andrea pushes his finger inside him a few times before working another finger inside alongside the first one.  
  
Two fingers slip in more easily than the first intrusion, helped along with Gigi’s jerks on Riccardo’s cock and the generous amount of oil Andrea has poured over his hand. Riccardo pushes back against the fingers just slightly, a silent sign of pleasure and trust.  
  
Andrea is twisting his fingers inside Riccardo, stretching him, but also searching, familiarizing himself with Riccardo’s body.  
  
“A bit deeper,” Riccardo gasps out just as Gigi caresses the tip of his cock, and Andrea follows the command, pushing his fingers deeper, massaging Riccardo’s insides inch by inch.  
  
Riccardo can tell Andrea is getting close before he finally finds what he is looking for, but even then the sudden rush of pleasure coursing through his body takes him by surprise.  
  
“Yes!” he groans against Gigi’s thigh, pushing back against Andrea’s hand forcefully, wordlessly demanding him to touch that same spot again.  
  
His legs are shaking – it takes a conscious effort to keep himself from falling down – and his grip on Gigi’s hand is probably getting too tight, but Gigi does not complain.  
  
He muffles the next moan into Gigi’s lap as Andrea rubs that spot again. Gigi’s strokes on Riccardo’s cock are not faltering either. It is all too much for Riccardo.  
  
“Stop,” he whimpers even as he tries to press himself against Andrea’s fingers again, “I’m gonna come. Too soon. Please stop.”  
  
Andrea and Gigi halt their movements immediately, like synchronized, and Gigi pulls his hand away completely, the loss of contact almost painful for Riccardo.  
  
Riccardo cannot decide whether to feel relieved or disappointed. He settles for both, resting the weight of his upper body fully on Gigi’s legs, hiding his face from his companions.  
  
What he does not expect is Gigi’s sudden groan. His grip on Riccardo’s hand falters momentarily, before it tightens again, almost too tight.  
  
“Sorry,” Gigi smiles down at him when Riccardo turns his face to the side, looking curiously up at his handsome face, “You know you’re really hot like this, don’t you?”  
  
And sure enough, Riccardo can feel the shape of Gigi’s erection under his cheek. He turns his head again, rubs his nose against the obvious bulge playfully, earning another groan from Gigi.  
  
“Should’ve told me,” Riccardo says softly, glancing at Gigi’s face as he rises up to lean on his elbows so he can open the ties of Gigi’s trousers, “I don’t notice stuff like that on my own.”  
  
Andrea is moving his hand again, slowly, finishing the stretching with some more oil, avoiding Riccardo’s prostate on purpose.  
  
“I’m ready,” Riccardo tells Andrea with a smile just as he pulls Gigi’s cock out of his trousers, stroking the length slowly, ghosting his lips above the tip which makes Gigi curse under his breath and buck his hips upwards.  
  
Riccardo presses his lips against Gigi’s flesh only briefly, tasting the precome on the tip.  
  
Maybe luckily for the both of them, he does not get any further before Andrea pulls his fingers out and positions his cock against Riccardo’s entrance, pushing past the ring of muscle carefully.  
  
Riccardo clenches his jaw at the intrusion, biting his teeth tightly together in attempt to stay silent, his hand on Gigi’s cock faltering as new flashes of pain rush through his body.  
  
“You okay?” Andrea asks quietly, not even trying to push any deeper, caressing Riccardo’s hip with his healthy hand.  
  
“I will be,” Riccardo grits out. He is resting his forehead on Gigi’s thigh again, and Gigi’s hands caressing his hair are already helping him to calm down, “I will be.”  
  
They wait, Gigi’s fingers combing through Riccardo’s hair and the slight trembling of Riccardo’s body the only movements in the dark carriage.  
  
And then Riccardo’s tense muscles begin to slacken, one by one, and he can finally breathe more easily. The pain diminishes, leaving only a pleasant pressure inside him, and Andrea can obviously feel the change as well.  
  
“You’re doing well, Riccardo,” Andrea tells him, and Riccardo can hear the smile in his voice. Gigi’s hands in his hair tell him the same without any words.  
  
Andrea rocks his hips back, pulling out of Riccardo before pushing in again, just a bit deeper, pumping in with shallow movements, his hand on Riccardo’s hip keeping him still even as Riccardo wants to push back against him.  
  
Riccardo’s hand is still on Gigi’s cock, his hold tightening in time with Andrea’s thrusts, out of reflex more than anything. Gigi still moans softly, bucking himself into Riccardo’s hand, not demanding anything more.  
  
Andrea hits Riccardo’s prostate again, finding just the right depth and settling for a steady rhythm, not even trying to go deeper.  
  
Riccardo lets out a breathy moan, his voice picking up as Andrea’s cock keeps rubbing against the same spot. His legs would have given out under him was it not for the support Andrea’s body offers to him.  
  
He wishes it could last forever, the pain in his body long since overpowered by the strong waves of pleasure rushing over him, but he is too close, his aching cock begging for release.  
  
“Please?” he whimpers against Gigi’s thigh, so quiet Andrea and Gigi probably cannot even hear him. But still Andrea reaches his hand around him, takes a hold of his cock and pushes him over the edge with fast jerks.  
  
The release is intense, Riccardo’s seed hitting the carriage floor, Andrea’s fastening thrusts inside him and the hand on his cock draining him until the very last drop.  
  
For a moment Riccardo can see stars behind his closed eyelids, only half-conscious when he feels Andrea’s release inside his clenching hole, the cum seeping inside him and then out of his entrance when Andrea finally pulls out.  
  
Riccardo collapses down the moment Andrea’s hold on him loosens, his legs shaking from the prolonged effort of staying upright. His hold on Gigi’s cock loosens as well, all his energy spent as he struggles to catch his breath.  
  
He can feel Andrea checking out his bandages, making sure the bleeding of his wounds has not gotten worse because of the exertion. The pain is slowly coming back, and Riccardo hisses when Andrea runs his fingertips over his back.  
  
Gigi does not move until Andrea is done with the check-up, but then he untangles his hands from Riccardo’s hair and reaches for Andrea – Riccardo can tell they are kissing even without opening his eyes.  
  
“Would you mind?” Gigi is asking Andrea, and then Riccardo can feel Andrea’s fingers entwining with his own on Gigi’s cock, picking up from where Riccardo left.  
  
“Wait,” Riccardo whispers, finally raising his head with some effort, looking up at the couple with half-lidded eyes, his gaze focusing slowly, “Let me. Please.”  
  
Andrea smiles at him and leans down to press a kiss on his forehead.  
  
Andrea does not move his hand away from Gigi’s cock, but he leaves enough space that Riccardo can press his mouth on the tip again, licking the flesh, sucking on it gently.  
  
Andrea guides his hand on the length, setting up a rhythm, and it does not take long before Gigi gasps out their names, a quiet warning just before his cum shoots into Riccardo’s mouth, the tangy taste familiar and new at the same time.  
  
“I do,” Riccardo whispers as Gigi pulls him up from the floor and into a long kiss, the taste of his own release mixing on their tongues, “I do love you.”  
  
And despite his earlier doubts, he knows he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Third degree burns don’t hurt because the nerves on the skin have been damaged. They always leave scars though, which is how branding (both on animals and humans) works. The burnt areas that do hurt are either first or second degree, because obviously Cassano wouldn’t have paid close attention when he was probing Riccardo with the hot iron, causing different levels of damage. Obviously the burns may be infected if not treated correctly, but why don’t we just assume here that Andrea knows what he’s doing, okay?  
> \- I don’t have any references on what people used as lubricant during the mediaeval times. I’ve heard of people using olive oil even during the Antiquity, and I’m sure they had different kind of choices of massage oils (etc.) but I decided to leave that point open because it’s not really important and it’s not like Riccardo was paying any close attention to it anyways.


	15. Epilogue

_Venice, Republic of Venice, 1456 AD_  
  
  
“I’m home, Andrea,” Riccardo calls out as he walks through the door, quite unnecessarily considering their place is nothing more than a small room and Andrea can see him coming in even before he says a word.  
  
Still, it is nice, having a place they can all call home, at least for now.  
  
“Welcome back. How was work?” Andrea replies with a smile, taking in Riccardo’s form – the messy overgrown hair, the patched but still usable clothes, and the green paint stain on his left cheek, a new addition just for today.  
  
“Busy, master’s working on that portrait for the counsellor’s daughter, so I had to go back and forth, taking commissions and mixing paints,” Riccardo says as he drops his bag by the door and makes a beeline for the table where Andrea is sitting at, slipping into his lap without asking for a permission, pecking his lips affectionately.  
  
Riccardo’s job as a painter’s assistant does not pay much, and it leaves Andrea on his own for the days with Gigi out on his bodyguard duties, but it has been worth it just to see how happy Riccardo is when he can be of use to someone.  
  
“How was your day, then?” Riccardo is gently stroking Andrea’s beard, overgrown as well, making him appear much older than he actually is – which is a good thing for his credibility as a medic, Andrea keeps telling Gigi whenever he brings up the subject.  
  
“Boring,” Andrea smirks humourlessly, reaching for Riccardo’s face to wipe away the annoying green stain, “People prefer not to pay for the treatment until they’re at the gates of death.”  
  
“—Which is usually too late,” Riccardo fills in for him, familiar with Andrea’s complaints by now, and Andrea laughs sheepishly before pulling Riccardo in for a proper kiss.  
  
The paint stain is still there, a pestering blemish on Riccardo’s beautiful face.  
  
“He wants to paint my scars, once the rush calms down,” Riccardo admits when they break the kiss, his lips hovering over Andrea’s, uncertainty seeping into his voice.  
  
Andrea is not surprised: Riccardo’s scars have been almost an obsession for his employer since he first saw them, and Andrea and Gigi have been waiting for him to request something like this.  
  
“Want me to talk to him?” Andrea asks, wrapping his arms securely around Riccardo’s waist, “Or maybe Gigi could have a word with him, since he’s coming home tomorrow?”  
  
“No, it’s my problem,” Riccardo insists quietly, but Andrea knows that is not quite true.  
  
They have been able to bypass questions about their past until now – especially about Riccardo’s scars – but the longer they stay in one place the harder it will be to hide it from the people around them.  
  
They cannot risk anyone finding out, not when Cassano is still out there.  
  
“We could leave,” Andrea suggests, taking a hold of Riccardo’s chin and dropping chaste kisses around his face, “Get a ride from some trade ship, go far away from here. Have you ever been to Sicily? Or maybe France?”  
  
“Could we?” Riccardo asks hesitantly, but Andrea recognizes a glimmer of hope in his voice.  
  
They might be comfortable in Venice, with Gigi’s income providing them with everything they need. But none of them feel truly at home there, not with Gigi having to go off for weeks at times, not with the constant fear of getting caught touching each other ‘improperly’.  
  
“Let’s talk to Gigi about it tomorrow,” Andrea tells him with a laugh, “If everything goes well, we might be able to leave by the end of the week.”  
  
The hopeful smile he receives from Riccardo is all the proof he needs to know this is the right choice.  
  
They might be still running, but they are finally done with searching.  
  
They do not need to search anymore, because they have all they need with them no matter where they go. Just the three of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- That’s it, all done after over a year of planning and half a year of writing!  
> \- I remind you again that while I’ve done my best to keep true to the historical context, none of this should be considered historically accurate, because I am no expert of Mediaeval Italy, and Wikipedia/Google is really not the most trustworthy place of reference when doing research.  
> \- Feedback would be much appreciated, because this is the longest fic I’ve written to date, with lots of research and personal attachments put into it as well. As a history major, I love historical AUs, but they demand lots of extra work, so I don’t think I’ll be tackling another one anytime soon unless people really want me to.
> 
> \- Thank you for sticking with me and this story for this long, and thank you also to those who read this only now that it’s finished! You’re the reason I keep writing! Love you all!


End file.
